


Enough

by alienchrist



Series: Orion Surana [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Disabled Character, Dragon Age Big Bang, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 21:05:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alienchrist/pseuds/alienchrist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fenris meets the strange-mannered Hero of Ferelden, Orion Surana, and unexpectedly joins his cause of elf sovereignty. As Zevran helps prepare the elves of Kirkwall for a potential uprising, he forms a close bond with someone very similar to himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Kirkwall was still burning in places even after a week's time. More than that, the air was thick with a fear and rage. In the first days of my conscription I believed I would be cleansing the world of all its evil by driving back the Blight. Darkspawn were created by the ugliness of the mortal world, twisted mirrors of the Maker's creations, meant to teach His misguided creations just how terrible they could become if they took more than they were given, and aspired to more power than they could manage. Alistair might have considered it a joke, but early in my career, I truly had hoped the Blight would bring people together. I was a fool, and very young, telling myself that even as I navigated political corruption, revenge-driven curses and cults that things would be different once I defeated the archdemon. I read too many silly adventure stories back in the Circle. Proper hero, proper King, happily ever after with all loose ends sewn up, that is the image I kept in my head for much of my quest. It was an irresponsible expectation, elvhen mage that I am. I've lived my whole life knowing that freedom and happiness cannot come wholly or completely through passive hope, which is exactly why everyone always tells you that it is the only way. As long as someone is given the chance to hold power over another, there is a good chance someone will take advantage of it, and have a great lot of trouble giving up that power even if confronted with any manner of objection or resistance._

 

_I sometime wonder if the reason the Warden who kills the archdemon is meant to die was so they cannot be disappointed their sacrifices went to waste and life continued much as usual. Kirkwall was burning, and it was more proof that mortals could make things ugly for themselves with no darkspawn in sight to blame. Rites of annulment were razing Circles left and right. It would have made me heartsick if I had expected any different._

 

_The last of my illusions were burned away in the days leading up to the Landsmeet. Slavers snatched entire families from the alienage in which I was born. I put an end to that, naturally, and found the slavers were doing business with Loghain._

 

_I asked the elder what had happened to the Suranas living in his alienage. My parents had another son after me, and a stillborn daughter. My mother left my father shortly after the miscarriage, giving no indication where she planned to go. Both my ailing father and near-grown little brother were taken by the so-called healers during the quarantine. There were no signs of them, no news of them amidst the elves I released from Tevinter cages._

 

_What was even more appalling than this development was how little anyone cared. It was just something Loghain was pushed to do, a way for him to make money to fund his civil war. The Landsmeet put Alistair on the throne, set to marry Anora after I killed Loghain. Funny how nobles wouldn't listen to me lecture about tactics but were perfectly happen to let me slit a man's throat in front of them. Even now in the stories they tell of it they say I did it not only as a political move but as revenge for the Wardens and my beloved mentor, Duncan. The elves who were sold away, who died, whom I could have been but for the grace of the Maker, were little more than a footnote._

 

_Denerim was in shambles after the battle with the darkspawn. Even my new status as Hero of Ferelden could turn me up no leads. No one had known those slavers but Loghain, and whatever records he kept were destroyed by his staff after his death to protect his reputation. With Zevran's help I followed a very weak trail, but the trail went cold in ruined buildings and puddles of darkspawn blood._

 

_One night my frustration turned anger, then grief as I shouted, swore and eventually broke down. No one cared about the people who had gone missing. No effort was being made to find or retrieve them, not even a token gesture. Of course everyone was busy rebuilding the city. Ferelden will take at least a generation to fully recover from the Blight. It still incensed me how little anyone cared. They were only elves. Elves were bound to disappear._

 

_Zevran said something that day that stuck with me:_

 

_"If you are this disappointed, perhaps you should not expect so much."_

 

_Zevran was enslaved by the Antivan Crows. I've written on it before, and I still grind my teeth a bit whenever I think of it, when he is not looking. He considers it to have been a better option than prostitution, or being sold to Tevinter slavers, or living on the streets as a cut-purse eating from the trash until some illness took him. It is not my place to judge whether or not it was, but like most elves, he had little choice in the course his life took._ ~~_In truth, I grieve for him deeply sometimes, since he will not for himself._ ~~ _He could not have expected more._

 

_The Chantry's tyrannical handling of mages was just one more example of shemlen dominance, every bit as imperial as the Tevinters of old. After all, it was the Chantry and the templars who drove my people out of the Dales, the lands willed to the elvhen by Andraste herself._

 

_In my journeys I've seen elves to be destructive at times, true, but usually in reaction to the tyranny of shemlen. Shemlen are by nature violent, changing the world around it instead of attempting to work in harmony with it. This will never change. They will keep burning themselves down._

 

_I was not surprised by Kirkwall. I wish I could have been._

 

_I knew it was unlikely Anders was still there. I did not really expect to find him. When I met with Zevran he confirmed to me that Anders and the apostate Hawke were on the run._

 

_Kirkwall was in anarchy, but the venedahl still held its roots. It was as good a place as any to start._

 

-From the Journals of Orion Surana, 9:37 Dragon

 

 

 

 

Lawrence and Anders weren't speaking. They hadn't said more than a handful of words to one another since Kirkwall. Their silence was a vortex that pulled everything into it. Conversation. Energy. Emotion. Color. Air. Bit by bit, the group that held solid through six years' time dissolved, until only Lawrence, Anders and Fenris remained. As they ate another lifeless meal before breaking up camp, Fenris could not help but think it should not have been him here. Varric could tell a tale to fill this silence. Isabela could offer to insert some lewd activity into the void. Merrill might have bored them with some kernel of knowledge about the Dalish, some vaguely-related legend, or amused them all with some verbal missteps. Aveline or Carver might have been every bit as grim as Fenris, chewing in time to the crash of waves in the distance, but at least Carver would have had some business there. Aveline could not possibly hate Anders as much for the situation as Fenris did, and even a sharper tongue. It should have been anyone but Fenris, but he was the only one left because he had nowhere to go. Lawrence was as close a thing to a home as he had, the only sort of guiding direction that Fenris had after killing Danarius.

 

As the nights wore on a great anxiety flew into Fenris's rib cage and began to nest there. Lawrence was letting Anders lead the way to a hidden village in the Marches, a hideout for apostates carved into a cliff-side. As they drew closer to it, the anxiety fed on each doubt and distress until it was too big to fly away. It was trapped within his chest, breathing his breath, threatening to crack his ribs with each step he took. Fenris wanted to follow Lawrence, but Lawrence was no longer leading. He was cracked, like the cursed mirror that reigned Merrill’s life. Fenris suspected it happened not in the moment of Anders's betrayal, but in the moment Lawrence decided to remain at his side. The cautious dart of Lawrence's golden-brown eyes reminded Fenris of how he hid in his master's shadow when being returned to his 'care' after destroying the Fog Warriors. The shame was not in the abomination's wrongdoing, for that was to be expected. It was the unconscious decision to remain that broke his friend. In Fenris's case it might have been a little less willingly, but the emotion was surely not so different.

 

Fenris could certainly see no reason for Lawrence to follow Anders after his destructive actions, no matter how much he loved the abomination. To point this out would prove too much of a reminder that he, too, was following, so he kept silent. The anxiety was growing, and he wondered if it would kill him soon, when it grew too big. He imagined a clawed and hateful creature bursting from his body like a crow from the chest of a half-devoured corpse. It would take his heart with him, squeezed in its claws, like his own hand crushing the heart of Danarius.

 

Fenris could not stay with them, but he had gone this far. He had as little reason to be in Kirkwall as he did with Lawrence and Anders. There was some chance if he left and hurried he could catch Isabela, join her on the damned ship after all. The offer was always there, always implied, but he foolishly did not take it. Following Lawrence was a compulsion he did not know how to break. As they somberly chewed on a bit of a cold meat and flavorless cooked roots, Fenris could not help but notice how much his friend had aged. The perpetually-stubbly chin was actually growing a few wisps of beard. His long black hair was losing its gloss, pulled back haphazardly when Lawrence once took such care to wear it flowing long and just-so. A few strands of white interrupted the sea of black now. The warmth was drained from his golden complexion, making him look old and sickly. In comparison, Anders seemed stronger than ever, and ten times as grim. True that none of them looked ready for Hightown after weeks of camping and days of endless travel, but it seemed odd that Anders should be the one who pulled together in the face of this. Perhaps Justice lent him the strength. Fenris did not want to leave Lawrence alone with him, but considering Anders was the reason Lawrence ate or slept, he could not destroy him in good conscience. And as bad a taste as it might leave in Fenris's mouth, Lawrence was a mage, and sided with the mage resistance. With no family, blood or chosen, to look after in Kirkwall, Lawrence was out of reasons not to openly fight the templars. Even though Fenris disagreed in principle, he did not want to see a soul as bright as Lawrence’s locked away in a tower, either. If there was one exception to the rule (two, counting Lawrence’s dead sister), then the rule needed evaluation.

 

When Fenris first met Lawrence Hawke, he found him to be a strange human with little enough to gain from helping a former slave. But for all of Lawrence's sarcasm and obnoxious jokes, he had the heart of an altruist rather than a magister. That is surely why the group had rallied around him. He was always ready to do what he could for a cause he felt was right, even if he sarcastically complained about it.

 

Sometimes Fenris played their first conversations together in his mind, remembering how the firelight flickered in Lawrence's light brown eyes, making him seem all the more mischievous. Lawrence had attempted to flirt, but things could not have worked out between them. Fenris could not see past what Lawrence was, even as he came to regard him as an ally and a friend. He tried not to imagine if things had gone differently, if he had been receptive, or if Lawrence had not been so ready to move on to Anders after the first rebuff. Lawrence's friendship was valuable in itself, but Fenris sometimes could not assuage the little beak-peck against his heart that told him Lawrence had always been more of a leader than a friend. Fenris fell into step all too easily.

 

The sky was the color of poorly-polished steel in the dawn hours, and the sea blew an ugly wind, strong enough to throw sand by the handful. Their camp was little more than a small, sunken area with a bit of bush and rocks to shield from the worst of the weather. This beach was as treacherous as the Wounded Coast, littered with gangs and slavers that made their homes in the caves and cliff sides. The rugged scenery was hardly enough of a draw to bring out any pleasure-seekers considering the danger, and while the openness of the terrain made it very difficult to sneak around, it also made their tiny group almost impossible to ambush.

 

A suspicious figure made its way down the coast from the south, the direction Lawrence's party had come from. It was slender and bent - small for someone traveling unaccompanied. A merchant would hardly travel this area alone, and the stranger wasn't carrying enough to have been one on any account. Fenris, Lawrence and Anders each noticed the approaching visitor at the same moment. They didn't need to nod or signal, just sprung to action like a well-oiled trap snapping shut. Anders quickly gathered up the rest of camp, settling to the back where his spells would be more effective if it came to that. Lawrence and Fenris took up defensive positions. No reason to attack without knowing their intent.

 

Fenris swore quietly when he saw the figure was carrying a dragonbone staff in spite of being dressed a basic set of leathers. Of course a mage would be arrogant enough to traverse this area alone. There couldn't be a figure he wanted to see less if it had been conjured from his own loathsome dreams. At least if it had been a slaver, a magister from Tevinter, his sword could make short work and be well-justified. This one could be a million things. An abomination waiting to happen, another rebel, a shill from the Circle sent to track down Anders or Lawrence.

 

Still many yards away, the figure waved widely and enthusiastically. From the looks of it, the mage was a male elf with dark complexion. The wind pulled at his helm, and some strands of fire-bright red worked free, flying about. His voice carried on the wind, a steady, loud tenor: "Anders! Don't run away now."

 

"Andraste's knicker-weasels," Anders murmured incredulously. "It's the Warden Commander."

 

"You really must warn me when you've invited important company, our place is a pigsty and I haven't had time to run to market," Lawrence replied out of the side of his mouth. Anders chortled, and they exchanged a private, relieved grin before the elf completed his jaunt over to their camp. He quickly slid into the soft sand sheltered by the rocks. He leaned hard against one of the high rocks to catch his breath.

 

"Warden Commander Surana," Anders greeted him with a skittish expression. Fenris had seen him approach templars and rage demons with less trepidation. After a moment, Anders placed a hand on the elf's shoulder, and began to check him over for injuries. "Are you alright?"

 

If not for Fenris's trained eye for combat, he might have missed what happened next. Orion stood at all of his unimpressive height and punched Anders in the jaw. Anders fell backward on the sand. In the next moment Lawrence threw himself between the two, staff crackling, ready with a lightning spell. Orion stood calm in spite of the threat, palm of his right hand up, not offering any threat in return. The mage looked a bit odd, half scrappy city elf, half rag-tag mage, with a black butterfly-like tattoo over his eyes. His eyes were a very dark, inscrutable blue. His mouth was impudently set, as if he was holding back a laugh while remaining serious but serene. His lack of eyebrows made his expression rather difficult to discern.

 

"I'm not here to hurt him," Orion said quietly, not offering any further threat. Lawrence did not seem ready to back down.

 

Anders stood up, rubbing his jaw. "It's fine." He offered Orion a tentative smile. "It's good to see you. You're not planning to punch me again?"

 

"No." A pause. "Not right now, at least."

 

"Good," Lawrence interjected, finally replacing his staff on his back. He shrugged off all his animosity, returning to his more natural, amicable state. "If anyone's going to beat the tar out of him, it's going to be me."

 

Fenris could not withhold his laugh. It felt good, a loud single "Ha!"

 

Orion smiled a little too, lips upturning as he looked over Lawrence. "The Champion of Kirkwall, I presume?"

 

"The one and only."

 

"It's an honor." Orion gave a rather exaggerated bow. It reminded Fenris of another elf they had met, the assassin Zevran who had offered some rather... interesting rewards for Lawrence's assistance.

 

"And you're the Hero of Ferelden. Where is my autograph book where I need it?" Though Lawrence's quips were met with rolled eyes from the rest of the party, Fenris at least was relieved to hear them. It was as if a stone had been thrown into the pool of their misery. It hardly drained the pool, but at least there was movement in it now.

 

Orion chuckled and shook his head. "As I'm sure you know, the autograph of any mage right now is not worth very much." He pulled his backpack off, gently setting it on the sand in front of him. The tactician in Fenris noticed immediately that Orion used his right hand for everything. He held his left arm rigid and unmoving. Beneath the glove and bracer, it was wrapped in linen bandages right down to the curled fingertips. Orion didn’t struggle unlacing and opening his backpack. Neither did he seem surprised when something black and furry jumped out.

 

"A cat!" Anders gasped. The creature was young, not quite grown out of its kitten face, completely black with bright yellow eyes. The cat looked around calmly, sniffed the air, and padded away behind some rocks to scratch a hole in the the sand and see to its needs.

 

"Not just any cat, _your_ cat. Ser Pounce-a-lot's very own progeny, and just as relaxed in personality. Doesn't mind traveling at all, and quite an accomplished mouser on boats, though I do think it's a bit cruel to cart him about. You'll have to find somewhere nice to keep him." Orion shot Anders a meaningful look. "Consider him an 'I'm sorry I wasn't there to rescue you from templars but if you ever blow anything else up I swear I will drown you in the Blackmarsh' present."

 

"You came all this way to give him a cat?" Fenris scoffed. He thought it was strange enough how humans kept pets, but this in particular seemed pointless. Anders abandoned the dozens of strays he fed at his clinic to their fates, and showed no indication of missing them. He also never brought any of them to live in Lawrence's estate.

 

"He's a present," Orion said, looking a little affronted. "His name is Inky."

 

Inky returned from his break and began exploring the sheltered area, eventually wandering over to sniff at Lawrence. Lawrence crouched, letting the cat sniff his fingers and then scratching behind its ears with a tiny smile. Anders, on the other hand, seemed less than delighted. He stared at Orion with his arms crossed.

 

"You only give me presents when you're sucking up. What do you want? Did you come here to collect me? I don’t want to have to fight you."

 

"I certainly told the Wardens I was going to collect you," Orion said. "Believe me, they don't want a mage like me going somewhere out of sight unless it's for a good reason. There’s way too much trouble to stir up."

 

Anders looked like he might say something, like an argument or perhaps even an apology. For once in his life, he held his tongue.

 

"We have a lot of catching up to do," Orion said, "I had this whole speech in my head, for awhile, about how you can't ever really stop being Warden, and our duty is to protect those who have such endless faith in us, and so on..."

 

"I'm sensing a 'but' there," said Lawrence.

 

"--But I think there's no sense in us busying ourselves with saving the world if the world is going to treat us so poorly. I don’t agree with what you did, Anders, but I understand it. The Chantry has made slaves of us all."

 

"You know nothing of slavery," Fenris interrupted. His voice was a low rumble, rocks and magma moving deep beneath a troubled surface.

 

"I'm sorry," Orion said, rising to his feet, dusting some of the sand from his leather skirt. His expression was inscrutable, though his voice was thoroughly polite. "I'm afraid I got so caught up in the moment I didn't introduce myself to you. I have all the manners of a toad raised in a tower sometimes." That smile was meant to be charming and self-deprecating, but Fenris was not impressed. "I'm Orion Surana--"

 

"I know who you are, _mage_ ," Fenris spat. The pebble that upset the pond was quickly growing unwelcome. He could never hold with Anders's rhetoric about the enslavement of mages. He knew Lawrence agreed, and he wouldn't be able to stand it if this conversation turned into a chorus of agony aunts whining about the mage condition. They complained of their imprisonment, but no one ever blew up a mage's tower just to prove a point. "The Knight-Commander might have gone too far in her treatment of the Gallows, but to compare Circles at all to slavery is wrong. You know nothing of true enslavement."

 

Orion tugged at one of the strands of red hair worked free from his battered studded helm. He wrapped it around two fingers thoughtfully. "Then you tell me all about it," he finally said. "After I'm done with my business with Anders. You can tell me on our way back to Kirkwall."

 

"We're not going back," Anders said sharply. "We can't go back. Not now."

 

"Not you two. You're headed the other way, aren't you? But your friend here..."

 

"My name is Fenris."

 

"Fenris," Orion amended. The new smile he aimed at Fenris was rather treacly, perhaps trying to be sympathetic. Fenris didn't like it one bit. "You can come back with me. Assuming you can use that fancy sword, you could really be of help, and I could use all the information on slavery that I can get."

 

"I know that look," Anders said ominously. "That's how he looked when he conscripted me. 'Can you fight? Oh okay, come with me then!' Next thing you know, you're drinking from a chalice full of darkspawn blood."

 

"I didn't bring any darkspawn blood with me," Orion assured him with a serious nod. "And that goblet is way too heavy to carry on long trips."

 

"So what it is that you want from me, mage?" Fenris grunted. He wasn't particularly warm about the idea of some stranger arriving and behaving as if he could command Fenris's fate, Hero of Whatever or not.

 

"I'm raising an army. It's time the elvhen took back what's theirs."

 

Lawrence had a propensity for saying exactly what everyone else was thinking. It was actually a troublesome habit, because he tended to say aloud what people kept to themselves for good reason: "Let me guess," he said to Orion's suggestion, "There's a Dalish ritual. And blood magic." The words were an accusation disguised as a lighthearted, sarcastic joke, a jagged blade of anger at another elvhen mage who was not present.

 

Fenris did not know why Merrill's idiotic schemes had not better prepared Lawrence for Anders's eventual crimes. Mages only ever did things to serve themselves. After Merrill's clan turned on them Lawrence didn't leave his estate for a week. He hoped to follow Merrill, to protect her from the evil she took into herself, and wound up killing people with whom he actually had no quarrel. A rare group of people with ancient, noble traditions that Lawrence admired and respected. The mage mourned deeply, but never spoken a cruel word to Merrill over it.

 

"I beg your pardon?" Orion looked very much as if he had just taken a sip of curdled milk, and Lawrence was the one who gave it to him. "I'm not Dalish. And the Dalish aren't blood mages." An unpleasant thought fluttered across his face, and Orion amended softly: "Most of them aren't. No more than any other mages."

 

"That's what every mage says," Fenris interrupted. It felt good to have this argument again with someone, somehow. It was like slipping into his armor. Not necessarily soft or relaxing, but comfortable in its familiarity. "That blood mages are the exception, not the rule. They'll say it even as dozens of blood mages are trying to cut them down. They'll say it as they slit their own wrists and turn into abominations." He gave Anders a particularly withering glare, but the mage's focus was on Orion.

 

Orion was looking at Fenris, more curious than upset. "You don't like mages," he said, "Why?"

 

"Oh, here we go," said Anders with a dramatic gesture and a shake of his head.

 

"I was a slave to a Tevinter magister. He burned these markings into my skin. In the agony of the procedure, I lost every memory of my life before that day. Every line in my body erased who I was. Tevinter is full of magisters like him, who use people. They use blood magic and torture innocents without compulsion. In my time as his servant and bodyguard I witnessed every foul act a mage can commit."

 

"Oh," Orion said after a moment, expression carefully blank. "I guess it's good I didn't wear my Tevinter robes, then."

 

"If you think I'm going to follow you for any reason, mage," Fenris growled, "You are insane."

 

"Wardens are by nature insane," Orion replied reasonably. "Just look at Anders."

 

"And here I thought that was a glowing blue spirit of Justice," Lawrence remarked sarcastically. He realized the mistake in his wording just a moment too late. They welcomed Orion as an old friend, but the last time they spoke Anders hadn’t merged with Justice. He had the good sense to look chastened and keep his mouth shut now that the damage was done, at least.

 

Orion's eyes widened briefly, then his brow furrowed. He only took a moment to puzzle through the new information. "Justice? You don't mean..." He shook his head, as if by doing it he could keep himself from concluding the truth. "Anders, what have you done?"

 

"I merged with him," Anders explained quietly. "He was going to go away, Orion. Our comrade. Our _friend_. He saw how wrongly mages were being treated, and he said he could help us, that it was his duty to..."

 

Orion stood up abruptly, grabbing Anders by the sleeve. While his expression remained neutral, his voice was pulled taut over the anger he barely hid. A twitch spasmed beneath his left eye. "We are going to talk about this. Privately." He jerked his chin toward Lawrence. "If it's alright, Champion?"

 

Lawrence raised an eyebrow. "That depends. Are you going to spank him? Because if you are, then I want to watch."

 

Orion nearly smiled. "I promise if I decide to spank him I'll call you over."

 

"Then go with my blessing!" Lawrence grinned so hard that Fenris was sure he'd get a second-hand tension headache. There was a time when Lawrence would have defended Anders, but perhaps he was tired from defending every other trespass he’d made. Or perhaps he knew better than to argue with the Warden. Anders was being surprisingly passive in it, though he looked worried.

 

Orion gave a curt nod. He dragged Anders about ten meters away, where his lecture was mostly carried away by the wind.

 

Lawrence picked Inky up and scratched under his chin again. The cat purred and made himself comfortable in his arms. Lawrence looked out to the sea. His eyes seemed as lifeless as the driftwood, cold and beaten by rainy days and endless tides.

 

"You should go with him," Lawrence said.

 

"Are you suggesting I leave your side to take up arms for a complete stranger?" Fenris tried without success to swallow a lump in his throat. He felt dizzy. He couldn't tell if he was angry or grieved. He had drifted for years with only Lawrence and his friends as anchor. When Isabela left, she offered to take him with her, but he wasn’t ready yet. Perhaps it wasn't surprising. She was always looking for a chance to sail away. Fenris, by contrast, was always looking for someone to stand sentinel beside. He knew no other way. "Do you trust him that much within moments of meeting him?"

 

"Haven't you noticed? He's already part of the family, dragging people around by the ear and scolding them."

 

"Hawke." A name, a single syllable that Fenris nearly dragged into two in annoyed exasperation. Lawrence did not need to play at being disaffected. Fenris saw through it.

 

"You don't belong here," Lawrence said softly. _You don't belong with me._

 

"And I belong with him?" Fenris heard his voice raise, though he didn't quite understand why he was angry. This was the sickness that overcame him when he found out about Lawrence and Anders, one he barely banished by muttering 'typical' and changing the subject.

 

"You're your own man, Fenris. You decide where you belong." Lawrence always pronounced that with such determination. It was part of what gave Fenris such faith in him: Lawrence was clearly angered on Fenris’s behalf. He could never rule over another. Lawrence Hawke was very against slavery, except for the terms of his own heart.

 

A great storm of silence rolled across the silver and gray of the sea. It smelled of salt and sand, but beneath it smelled of marble halls and blood. The wind herded clouds across the sun. They cast shadows like great dragons loping across the coastline. Itchy sand blew in Fenris's ears and hair as he stared out at the sea with Lawrence, yet he could not hear the wind. All he heard was his heartbeat. It was a frozen moment, as clear and vivid as the first time Lawrence confronted the slavers chasing Fenris. If he stirred his tongue, the world might shatter.

 

Lawrence had no reason to be his friend. Fenris tricked Lawrence and Carver into helping him one night, and somehow the connection remained unbroken. Even though Fenris rebuffed Lawrence's compliments and railed constantly about mages, Lawrence saw him as something worth holding onto. Fenris did not know what to make of him letting go now.

 

It was inevitable, wasn't it? How long had Lawrence known they would have to part ways? Was it to always be this way for him, until Justice or the calling ripped Anders from him as well? Fenris's throat burned from the heat of so many unspoken words.

 

Lawrence sniffed. He turned his back, ducking back behind the rocks and letting go of Inky. "Sand in my eyes," Lawrence sputtered. "Who thought of filling these beaches with _sand_ , anyway? I'm going to file a complaint."

 

"To whom? The viscount of sand?"

 

"You know the viscount of sand? You've been holding out on me, Fenris."

 

"Here I thought I was overwhelmingly transparent."

 

Lawrence laughed. Fenris allowed himself a small smile. Lawrence returned it, and Fenris was silent for a long moment.

 

"Why do you think I should go with the Warden Commander?"

 

In the distance, Orion spoke to the abomination that called itself Justice. It was difficult to gauge the tone of their conversation by their body language alone, but Orion stood firm. Stray wisps of his hair whipped about like flame-red ribbons, his expression was impassive. The glow of Justice did not cow him.

 

"If someone's finally trying to do something for the elves that doesn't involve fixing an old mirror with blood magic, you should be part of that. They could use all the help they could get."

 

"The plight of city elves has little to do with me," Fenris reminded Lawrence. He was not like Merrill. He did not pity the city elves and disdained the alienage. The Dalish were pompous, harboring their mages and doing nothing for their own brothers and sisters enslaved. Overall, he was indifferent to the elves not enslaved. "If they refuse to do better with themselves, it is no concern of mine."

 

"And if this is their opportunity to do better for themselves, damn them anyway because I'd much rather follow Anders around and glower?"

 

 _I don't glower_ , Fenris thought with a scowl. "I'm not like you, Hawke. I'm not capable of solving other people's problems by stumbling in with good intentions."

 

"Not capable? And why not? A man who can pull off that outfit is capable of anything. Spiky armor, Fenris. Take it from a man who knows, it takes a formidable man to pull it off without looking pretentious. Or poking himself in the eye constantly."

 

Fenris shifted his weight, uncomfortable.

 

"Not to mention you crush people's hearts like moldy oranges. That's a skill that shouldn't go to waste."

 

It was impossible to overlook Lawrence's red and puffy eyes, even as he joked. The wind had died down and it was quiet in their little alcove. It was almost enough to pretend he and Fenris were the only people left in the world. Sometimes, horribly, selfishly, Lawrence wished that they were. He chose Anders in the end, and he did love the man, Justice and all. But life with Fenris might have been simpler.

 

There was so much ahead for he and Anders. A revolution Anders was determined to be a part of. A tense and uncertain future, and trust that might never be completely mended.

 

But it was still a future. That was the part Lawrence always held onto. This was not like his childhood of ducking and running, living hand-to-mouth, uncertain of where he might next be able to sleep. Things were still uncertain, but Anders had a plan. Lawrence followed it, if only because it meant he didn’t have to be the one with the plan for once.

 

"You're amazing, Fenris," Lawrence finally said. "And that Surana is a powerhouse, or so I've heard. You'll be safe with him." Lawrence paused thoughtfully. "Just don't let him lick you or anything. Anders said he has a bit of a lyrium problem."

 

"...There is no reason for you to be concerned for my safety." _I can take care of myself._

 

"If I had my way, I'd have kept all of you in a box in my basement, and only taken you out for an adventure or two." Lawrence laughed, but there was an obvious edge of desperation to it. Varric would've made the joke work, improving on the delivery when he told the story after the fact, joking about the lift of Lawrence's hands

 

"I didn't realize I was a toy, only used when you have need of me." Even as Fenris spoke the words he wondered if it was true. He reflected on his run-down mansion and the leaks in the ceiling. It smelled pleasantly dusty books and their leather bindings, of baskets full of sweet, ripe apples. It stank pungently of mold, wet wool and silk and rotting wood and mushrooms, of elfroot-soaked rags and bottles of wine left to ferment with half a sip still left in the bottom. He thought of the shadow Isabela's tall boots cast sitting alone in the firelight. Lawrence might have been the most exciting thing in his life, but he was not the only thing. Hawke was the only thing Fenris could make sense of after life in Kirkwall collapsed. Fenris also feared what Anders might do to Lawrence, as lacking vigilance as he was. And perhaps he feared Lawrence a little too, but that was a fear that made a hypocrite of him.

 

"If you were my toy," Lawrence said, shaking his head, "I would've forced you into a silly hat and tea parties with Anders long ago."

 

Fenris snorted. "We're already camping together. Perhaps a hat can be arranged in this mage hideout of yours."

 

"I seem to recall it has an overabundance of mages and very little mention of milliners."

 

"Outrageous." Fenris very nearly smiled wryly. "The trip is off."

 

They fell quiet a moment more. Lawrence let go of the cat, who padded off to chase some wood lice on a bit of driftwood.

 

Lawrence began to speak. "I'm really going to--"

 

"Enemies approaching! Be on the lookout!" Orion shouted from the distance.

 

A whooshing noise filled the air, accompanied by a sharp chill. Fenris recognized the makings of a storm spell sparkling in the distance, all sparkling ice crystals and mist. The storm froze and felled a large group of bandits in the distance. He saw a flash of lyrium bright light beneath Orion's clothes. His immobile left arm was covered with enchantment runes. He used both to hold his staff.

 

Fenris didn't have time to investigate what he saw. The air crackled with that hated, familiar magical energy, the spark that always seemed to accompany mages contacting the Fade. Growling, Fenris picked up his sword and sprinted toward the hobbled bandits. It was a relief to slice a few open. Being covered with blood, the constantly-changing sky reflected on the gleam of his sword was so much more familiar than sitting in the sand with a friend that had become a shadow of himself. It felt even better when Lawrence ran out into the fray with him, frying blaggards or flaying them with his bladed staff. Even with the addition of Orion, glowing with a fairy-light shield and his strangely glowing left arm, it felt _right._ Varric often shied away much from the real violence of these skirmishes, the startled look in a man's eyes right as the blade of a broadsword hit his neck, mouthing unspoken words and cut off before he can hiss out "How dare you end my life!"

 

Fenris was a warrior hewed from slavery and violence. His time with the Fog Warriors and infrequent visits to Kirkwall's Chantry didn’t stave off the instinct to give every fight his full effort, knowing nothing more than deadly force. A drawn blade was a challenge, after all. It was the fault of his victims if they drew blades without intention to fight. He did grow to pity, perhaps even respect some enemies. Because the kills he made were no longer in anyone's name but his own, he could not regret them.

 

"Well, that was bracing," Lawrence said when the fight was done, cracking his neck and picking a little gore out of his long black hair.

 

Orion chuckled, tugging his staff out of the grip of his left hand and replacing it on his back. He then bent the arm back into a somewhat natural position at his side. It was not the movement of natural flesh. He used only his right hand to rifle through the clothes of their freshly-dead would-be assailants.

 

"Ah, yes, pickpocketing the dead. A fine Fereldan tradition at work." Anders remarked as he approached the group. It seemed like Justice was gone for now, only present in that sort of pinched expression Anders often wore after battles. He crouched next to Lawrence, examining him for any wounds.

 

"In that case, you should join us," Lawrence said, poking at a pair of cracked gauntlets. Anders obliged him, sifting through a cloak and purse half-buried in the struggles, wet with melted ice. Anders was used to living on the run, after all. Now more than ever they could use any bit of spare coin they could find, though other things that might have been held onto to sell later were now left behind. Orion and Lawrence both murmured that they needed to travel light. "This letter is for someone in Kirkwall." Lawrence caught Orion's eye. "You're headed back there."

 

"For now." Orion took the letter. "Ugh, it's covered in blood."

 

"Everything is covered in blood," Anders pointed out. "You've always been fussy about the weirdest thing. You have blood in your hair and you're still chewing on the ends."

 

Orion shrugged, distracted by the content of the letter.

 

Fenris appreciated the irony of three mages rooting around in the sand for trinkets. The Hero of Ferelden and Champion of Kirkwall were reduced to the task of simple beggars due to Anders's war. Nothing about Orion's mannerisms seemed particularly put-on or insincere, and aside from Justice's presence in the battle, Fenris hadn't smelled or seen the evidence of any blood magic or demonic influence. Even Anders demanded nothing of Fenris as they set about this humiliatingly humble task. Fenris wiped his sword off on the high beach grass and scouted the area a bit to make sure the brigands weren’t been part of a larger group.

 

Once it seemed every worthwhile bit had been salvaged, the makeshift party went back to camp, where Inky stood sentinel over their packs, licking his paw. Orion crouched to scratch the cat behind the ears. The cat promptly rebuffed him, darting over to Lawrence. Orion sighed. "Cats."

 

Orion looked over to Fenris as he sat down with his pack, beginning to organize his supplies to make room for the extra coin. "I've never seen anyone fight like you. It's amazing."

 

"This _amazing_ way I fight is the result of the marks on my skin carved into so that I might be used by mages like you," Fenris replied.

 

_"Excellent conversation starter, those tattoos," Varric once said. "Doubles as a conversation stopper."_

 

_"With Fenris, it's always a conversation stopper," Lawrence replied. "And possibly an invitation to be messily killed."_

 

"I'm glad you're able to find such use for it," Orion said after a moment. "It must have been very difficult."

 

"My old master wanted a weapon. A bodyguard."

 

"Make an elf a weapon and he'll turn around and slit the throat of the one who made him so," Orion said mildly. He fished a small bottle of lyrium out of his pack, swallowed half its contents and shoved it back. He had a nimble, playful way of moving that didn't quite match the weight of his left arm. He was still rooting around his pack when Anders sidled up to him.

 

"Let's have a look at that arm, by the way."

 

"You mean my stump?"

 

"You know what I mean. Wynne would never let me hear the end of it if she found out I saw you without checking up on it."

 

"Maybe I don't want to do this in front of an audience." Apparently it only took bringing up the name Wynne to turn the Hero of Ferelden into a bit of a pouting child. Watching them seated beside each other, Fenris suddenly noticed the age difference between the mages. It was a dynamic nearly eclipsed by Orion's higher rank, but right now, as Anders fussed and Orion complained, Fenris could see that Orion was perhaps a decade younger.

 

"I can't exactly put up a modesty sheet," Anders said impatiently. Fenris had observed that while he was endlessly understanding with his clinic patients, when it came to his friends, he had little tolerance for grousing. "This never bothered you when we were in Amaranthine."

 

"You were my subordinates. I was allowed to discipline you if you sassed me. And now look at you, Anders. Full of sass."

 

"Better than full of young and stupid," Anders said fondly.

 

"That's arguable." Orion kept his right arm crossed over his chest, unmoving. Anders sighed heavily.

 

"Should I ask Lawrence and Fenris to look away?"

 

"No," Orion said, rolling his eyes. He insisted on taking every piece of armor off himself, perhaps to show he could. Beneath the leather of his chest piece, more leather could be seen. Fenris realized they were straps to hold his prosthetic left arm in place. Orion confirmed this when he unwrapped his prosthesis. It was a finely-crafted thing, silverite lovingly plated over delicately carved wood, dancing with multicolored runes. It was made of several pieces threaded together, jointed with a ball at the elbow and wrist. The hand did not have fingers, though it was carved to look as if it might, but rather worked as a hook with an adjustable grip. It was an unnerving sight to watch Orion unstrap himself and begin to wash and polish the arm without a second thought. Anders looked over Orion's stump ruefully, applying healing magic to the reddened, irritated flesh there.

 

"I suppose it's too much to ask you not to wear that thing every moment. You don't heal it up properly when it becomes inflamed, which puts you at risk for infection."

 

"You suppose right. I need to be ready for battle at all times. And you're underestimating my strength. I'll do whatever it is I need to do. I learned how to cast with this blighted thing, the rest of it is cake."

 

"When will you stop believing you can accomplish everything just by _believing_ it?"

 

"Whenever it stops working. Besides, you're one to talk." Orion's voice held a sharpness, but he did not condemn Anders directly. He sorted through Anders's bag of medical supplies.

 

"It had to be done," Anders said quietly, concentrating on putting some gauzy soft cloth inside the socket of Orion's prosthetic.

 

Orion met Anders's gaze, handing him a roll of gauze. "And I'll say the same when I'm done with every ugly thing I've been tasked with. I can't continue to ignore the suffering of my elvhen sisters and brothers." Orion cast Fenris a meaningful look. "Will you help me?"

 

"...I am still deciding whether or not you are insane."

 

"I have seen too many things that would change anyone, I won't lie about it. That's part of being a Warden. But I'm not a blood mage, or a Tevinter. And, not to put too fine a point on it, my plan is to free elves, not mages, so it might be a little more relevant to your interests than what Anders and Lawrence are pursuing."

 

"Why this, why now?" Anders butted in. He was holding onto Orion's arm now, wrapping it up in the linens efficiently and deftly. "You always championed mages. When Alistair became king, you tried to free the Circle."

 

"I made Alistair king," Orion corrected Anders.

 

"Damn the Landsmeet for taking all the credit," Lawrence teased. Orion glared at him. Lawrence just smirked.

 

"I made Alistair king because Ferelden needed him. I figured the fact he didn't want to do it was a good sign he was qualified for the job. But even he can't fix Ferelden." Orion had returned to twirling a lock of hair in his fingers. He brushed the ends of his hair against his cheek, near the corner of his mouth. "He can't fix all of Thedas. And neither can Anders."

 

"Even I made a mess of it," Lawrence admitted, trying for lighthearted. Perhaps his sense of comic timing had left him.

 

Orion leaned forward, peering into Lawrence's face. "Wait. I just remembered. _Lawrence Hawke_. You're Carver's big brother aren't you?"

 

"You know Carver?" It was the most real expression Fenris had seen on Lawrence's face in a long time. He had the look of a shipwrecked man spotting sails on the horizon. It had not been much of a goodbye when Lawrence last saw Carver in Kirkwall, and some of their conversation had been Carver describing in explicit detail to Anders what would happen to him if any harm came to Lawrence.

 

"Yes, worked together in Amaranthine now and then. He confirmed the rumors of your involvement in this mess to me just before I left I sent him along to Denerim."

 

"Leave it to Carver to spoil a good getaway." Lawrence's sigh was far more fond than sardonic. "Aren't you worried he's going to turn the royal court against the Wardens again with his stubbornness?"

 

"It's good to have a Warden officially present there, someone who's serving the Wardens over the kingdom. If he pulls his head out of his arse long enough to let Alistair mentor him, I think he'll take well to his fighting techniques. I'd almost forgotten he was related to the Champion of Kirkwall. He didn't mention you much, though he spoke a lot of your sister and mother."

 

"Well, that's Carver. Forever blaming me for being born first."

 

Orion dug his toe in the dirt. It was a rather fine boot, embroidered and neatly kept, and he frowned at the grains of wet sand that clung to it as if offended by their presence, though they only covered the blood. "If I knew my brother at all, I think I'd be happy to tell others about him."

 

Fenris snorted. Anders jumped into the conversation before he had a chance to start in with whatever disparaging remark he might come up with. "You have a brother?" Fenris failed to understand why the information of was of interest to Anders. Almost certainly the next few words out of his mouth would have something to do with the injustice of families being separated. As if Fenris weren't proof that sometimes families were better off separated.

 

"I never met him, he was born after I joined the Circle. He and my father were taken when Loghain sold out the alienage to slavers." Orion stood up. "So I've been giving it thought, _years_ of thought, and if I can't find my family and free them, then I should free every elf and hope it's not too late for them too."

 

"You can't possibly mean to free all the slaves in Tevinter on your own," Fenris said, furrowing his brow. "The magisters will never give up their ways."

 

"Have you ever read _The Book of Shartan_?"

 

Fenris searched for Lawrence’s gaze across the camp. He couldn’t find it. "I have read parts of it."

 

Orion fell quiet as he concentrated on replacing his arm, then his armor. "He started a rebellion amidst the slaves when Andraste marched on Tevinter. The Chantry downplayed that when they decided to take the Dales from us, but she likely wouldn't have gotten anywhere without Shartan's help. And maybe without Andraste, we'd all be talking about the great Shartan." A small smile twisted up one corner of his mouth, but didn't quite take over.

 

"Or we could all be slaves," Fenris countered.

 

"We're already slaves," Anders said.

 

"We're rebels," Orion corrected him.

 

"I like the sound of that better," Lawrence said agreeably. "Do rebels get matching uniforms? I'd love a matching uniform. Something snappy that says, 'Die, oppressors!'"

 

"The idea is that they won't see us coming," Orion said, hiding his laughter.

 

"Do you really believe you can take down Tevinter? Do you have any idea what you'd be taking on?" Fenris's voice raised, though he wasn't sure why he felt so angry, so panicked by these suggestions. “The Qunari have been fighting them to a standstill for years.”

 

"Can’t do it alone," Orion admitted, "But that's why I'm resigning my commission as Warden-Commander. The time will come when Anders and I will both have to pay our final debts as Wardens, certainly. But for now, I want to see if we might establish an elf sovereignty in Kirkwall - I can think of no better of place that be the center of elf freedom than the City of Chains."

 

Anders frowned. Fenris suspected he was angry at the prospect of losing Orion's alliance, or maybe he didn't like the reminder that he was still a Warden in all of this.

 

Orion stood, brushing a little sand off the skirt of his armor. "It's a long way back to Kirkwall, Fenris. Will you come with me? I'll make you my left hand. The second recruit in my army!"

 

To his own surprise, Fenris found himself standing. He hoisted his pack over his shoulder.

 

"...Isn't the term right-hand man?"

 

"I already have one of those. A rogue. Between us we'll make a pretty balanced set, now that I think of it."

 

"...Him?" Lawrence interjected. "Won't he be a little distracting?"

 

"When it comes to shemlen, Zevran's brand of distraction can be very, very useful. I do believe you might know all about that."

 

"Er," said Lawrence. Anders elbowed him. Lawrence coughed loudly.

 

Orion just shook his head in amusement. He carefully gathered up his pack, and replaced his helm on his head.

 

"If you see Carver, tell him big brother says hi, and he really ought to write more."

 

"And to which address shall I tell him to forward the letters?"

 

"Point taken."

 

"If _you_ see Wynne, tell her that my stump is fine," Orion said to Anders.

 

"Must I? If I see her, I was rather planning on ducking into the nearest bush. Or deep hole. Or the ocean." Anders said sheepishly. Funny, Fenris thought, someone Anders seems even more nervous about than the Warden-Commander.

 

"She might have some insight on what to do about Justice, her knowledge of spirit work far surpasses mine," Orion pointed out. "If you see her, speak to her. If I survived her nagging about my life choices, so can you." Orion gave a pause to punctuate the finality of his statement. "That's an order."

 

There were no real words of goodbye. Fenris and Lawrence already spoke all they could, and Fenris had precious little to say to Anders. As they walked away, Fenris felt a great weight being lifted off his shoulders, realizing he might not ever have to tolerate the abomination ever again. It was a bittersweet relief. He might mourn lost chances, he might even fool himself into believing that Anders made a move on something Fenris once hoped for himself, in time. But in the end, Lawrence and Anders were a package deal. Being rid of Anders meant losing Lawrence.

 

If Lawrence elected to be lost in Anders's world, there was no way Fenris could tear him from it. It was something Lawrence believed in, and no more could Fenris force him to think otherwise than someone could have wrenched Fenris from Danarius's side years ago. Another thing that this Orion was overlooking. If Orion somehow managed to speak to the slaves, how would he get them to take up arms? Surely Tevinter magic had only grown stronger since the days of Shartan.

 

Lawrence always held out hope. Things worked out, even if it was a struggle. From what he heard of the Warden-Commander, his manner was much the same. Perhaps there really were people in the world who could make things happen by _thinking_ them. A terrifying concept when describing a mage. He did not yet know if the elf could be trusted. He vowed to be wary. The elf mages he met had not proven to be trustworthy, whether acting as the leader to the Circle or his own sister.

 

If Orion’s revolution proved to be dangerous to Kirkwall, Fenris could always assist Aveline in snuffing it out. For some reason, the idea of fighting aside with the city guard to turn on elves left a bad taste in his stomach. Knowing the nature of mages and their addiction to power, it seemed likely he might need to resort to it. He didn’t want to have to.

 

Still, he followed. He fell into step so easily he berated himself. He only looked back once, when they were several thousand yards away. Lawrence and Anders had left camp and were nothing but two smudges walking together in the distance. He could not be certain, but it looked like they were holding hands.

 

Though they were walking back the way they came, when Fenris turned to continue following Orion, it didn't feel like going backward.


	2. Chapter 2

_I have learned so much from Zevran._

 

_I trusted my instinct when I spared his life. Of the many impetuous decisions I made while I was fighting the Blight, he is the one I am happiest with. Considering that we’ve been together for many years now, I suppose that’s no surprise. When I met Zevran, he quickly offered to turn on the very people who sent him. Some might have taken that as a sign he was dishonest, but I thought he was being quite brave. Rather than clinging to the values that were imposed on him, he jumped at the opportunity to escape them. I did rather the opposite when I was recruited by the Wardens. I feared, and I wished to return to the bosom of my prison rather than face a world I didn’t understand, a world that afforded me some protection from a world that wasn’t always kind to people like me._

 

_I don’t see Zevran as an assassin, but a survivor. What choice did he have but to become what he did? He was a child when he was enslaved by the Crows. I saw some of myself in him - don’t laugh, Zevran, when you read this! - for both of us had bested the only true paths laid in front of us. We were survivors. But I hoped someday to have the courage he did, to throw myself at the mercy of fate rather than dying for something I never truly believed in._

 

_After my stint in Amaranthine, I took a sabbatical to track him down in Antiva. I was surprised to find he wanted to take over the Crows rather than destroy them completely. After he explained the politics of the situation I understood better. Eliminating the Crows would only create a vacuum for more of the same - Antiva, in personality, is too spiteful and backstabbing to ever exist without it. It is a crutch that is part of their identity, like Orlais has its Chantry and Ferelden has its dogs and hatred of Orlais. If there must be Crows in Antiva, then so be it, but they needn’t enslave children. Considering the status of an assassin is one of the best an elf can attain there, there would be plenty who’d line up for the privilege to become one._

 

_I’m aware I haven’t written about Antiva. It was an ugly, violent time, even more so than the others I have outlined, and full of secrets I can’t share and memories I don’t wish to relive. It is more difficult to kill people than darkspawn, and I am always deeply saddened afterward. One more way Zevran bests me, I suppose. Zevran and I spent several months apart after I aided his takeover. My heart was sick. I wasn’t sure if he’d come back to me now that he’d achieved his ultimate goal. But he did return to me, and even met me in Kirkwall. Even heroes have doubts, and besides, I am not the man I was when we first became lovers. It would be convenient enough to call the distance too far and simply never return to my embrace._

 

_But he did. He came to see me in Amaranthine after briefly aiding Hawke during the uprise in Kirkwall._

 

_He came with me to Kirkwall even though he called it a wretched city. I wish I could’ve taken him with me to find Anders. Surely he would’ve gotten along Fenris better than I did by virtue of not being a mage. But I had work for him to do there, and he trusted me to know what I was doing._

 

_I endeavor to be worthy of his trust._

 

-From the journals of Orion Surana

 

 

Zevran observed in Kirkwall a dozen memorable smells, none of them particularly pleasant. There was the briny smell of the bay, seaweed, fish and the salty sailors that shouted to each other on the docks. There was the smell of cobblestone and the dank stench of desperation wafting up from Darktown. But over all those competing sensations was the sharp, charcoal scent of recent fires. It lingered in the nose like a sneeze threatening to happen and camped in the back of the throat like sour bile. Kirkwall had burned, long and hard and nearly to the ground, and it lingered in every corner almost the same as the scent of filthy and despairing slaves.

 

To say he was not fond of the city would be charitable. It was an ideal city for an assassin, with its confusing array of streets and dozens of dark corners. There was something sinister about the place, even forgetting its history, and he often found his skin prickling at nothing at all. Zevran jumped at shadows.

 

Of course, it didn’t help that this was where the Chantry was blown to ashes. That grand battle between mages and templars destroyed the homes and lives of nobles and refugees alike. It was a shadow of itself, a skeleton of blackened cobblestone and ragged red awning. Years ago, Zevran followed Orion into the Deep Roads without hesitation, but the heaviness of Kirkwall’s history weighed like nothing else he ever carried. At least in Denerim there was a sense of optimism after the archdemon was slain.

 

Maybe it was the shadow of the _venedahl_ 's branches that made him so anxious. Zevran was born in a brothel toward the center of the city, and only visited the alienage a handful of times. As a Crow, his status afforded him an exemption from the rules that kept elves in the alienage. Those days he looked down on the elves who were less fortunate, but in truth, he simply disdained the idea that he was only different through circumstances. In spite of being a city-born elf, he did not feel at home in the alienage, as if the poor folk might sense his prior arrogance and shun him. The room Orion arranged for them was itchy with dust and splinters. When he woke in the still of night to relieve himself he tripped over empty bottles of brandy and lyrium they managed to accrue in their short time alone together. The wreckage made for good camouflage. More than that, if anyone did decide to stumble in, he would hear them immediately. That was his excuse for not cleaning up what Orion would have pestered him into removing days ago. It was his own way of thumbing his nose at the mage's obsessively clean habits while he was away, showing off his resentment for being called talked out of leaving Antiva then left behind.

 

Orion's instructions were not immediately explicit, something that Zevran always found annoying. "Listen," Orion said over a breakfast of thin, greasy gruel in a depressing tavern, "See how they're feeling. Get to know their _hahren_. I'm pretty sure that elves are the only remaining consistent population in the city, aside from a few templars and whatever mages were stupid enough to go back to that mess, and those humans too poor or stubborn to leave."

 

"What is it you are planning?" Zevran asked, leaning over on his elbows, tapping his foot against the inside of Orion's ankle.

 

When Zevran met Orion, he thought of him as no more than a charmingly naive mage boy, wide-eyed as a fawn lost from its mother as he re-learned life outside the Circle. Zevran taught him many things, but found himself surprised at what a quick study Orion was, and how much he had to teach him in return. This impression still stood sometimes, when Orion smiled and said nothing and refused to answer question. A child's mischief glinted in his bright blue eyes, and Zevran fell in love all over again.

 

"Something great," Orion said, leaning over to press a kiss to Zevran's cheek. He always delighted in little public displays of affection, glancing around to see if anyone noticed. If anyone did, they paid no heed. Still, it was a luxury Orion loved after growing up in the Circle.

 

"It had better be great for you to haul me out here to Kirkwall and expect me to stay," Zevran said. "I have duties, you know. Duties you insist I take care of one hundred percent in spite of being half-responsible for me ending up there."

 

"Now you're beginning to sound like Alistair."

 

"Oh, boohoo, I am king, I'd rather be fighting stinky darkspawn, I cannot please my wife, I am terribly jealous of Zevran and his handsome lover, the Warden. If only I were ruling a guild of assassins in sunny Antiva instead of sitting around with dog-smelling nobles in Ferelden." Zevran supplied his own impression, perhaps just slightly more whiny than their warrior friend. His accent was dead-on, though.

 

Orion shook his head, lightly squeezing Zevran’s shoulder.

 

"I have to catch up with Anders. I'm not taking care of that damned cat for another day if I can help it."

 

"And here I thought you were starting to grow fond of Inky."

 

"Tomorrow Leliana will turn up with her nug and we'll have ourselves a traveling circus," Orion said, making a face. As if knowing he was being spoken about, Orion's mabari, Chompy, looked up, sniffing for any sort of scrap he might purloin. "Down," Orion said. "I'll get you a nice steak soon." Chompy's ears flicked in interest at steak, and seemed to give a bit of a nod before settling back at Orion's feet.

 

"I only wish you would tell me your objective, so I could better serve my beloved and not waste his time upon my return," Zevran said, purposefully theatrical. This delivery produced the desired result: Orion snorted, trying to pretend he didn't find it humorous enough to laugh.

 

"Help them. They're probably having the worst time trying to put their lives back together right now. Use just a little bit more of my coin than you think is wise, I won't need too much for my trip."

 

Zevran nodded. Orion was far more generous with his money than Zevran was. Between them they struck a good balance of thriftiness and hilariously outrageous altruism. The Circle didn’t teach Orion much about surviving outside its walls. Still, he did value Orion's charitable nature, though it galled him a bit how Orion behaved as if there were always going to be ways to earn more even after abandoning his post.

 

"...And teach them how to fight, those who don't know. With whatever they have on hand. Tell them we don't have to let this kind of thing happen again, if we learn to defend ourselves."

 

"You do realize elves aren't permitted weapons in alienages." Of course Orion knew this, but Zevran was sure he expected that interjection as part of his explanation.

 

"Is that so?" Orion said archly. "And who's going to stop us? The city guard already stretched thin defending this place from brigands and pirates? The nearly dissolved templars? The viscount, dead these many years?"

 

"I do so love it when you say 'And who's going to stop us' as if we're the most powerful thing around." But the truth was, they probably were.

 

"We are," Orion said simply, returning to his gruel with renewed enthusiasm. “Oh, you know I can’t keep secrets from you.”

 

Zevran knew that was a lie.

 

“I’ve been thinking that this city could be run by an elf. Perhaps the _hahren_. We could rebuild this city as an elf state, and have a basis to rule ourselves from there, and build an army. With an army, we could take back all that is ours. What? What is that look for?”

 

“Two reasons. The first is that I love you.”

 

“Flirt.” Orion chuckled.

 

“The second is that you are insane.”

 

The smile fell from Orion’s face. “Won’t you help?”

 

“Of course,” Zevran said. “Always.”

 

Zevran headed to that same tavern with Chompy today. Though the mabari whined, Orion insisted he stay behind with Zevran. Anders wasn't a dog person, and there was a chance the hound would chase Inky off at an inopportune moment. Zevran hadn't much agreed with Orion's choice either, but while he was just as loyal as the dog and arguably less reasonable, he let it be. He knew Orion worried about Zevran's safety, even keeping a low profile in the alienage. The anonymous guildmaster of the Crows should not be taking a sabbatical to interfere with a tumble-down ruin of a city in the Free Marches.

 

Not that a powerful mage without a templar in sight would be met with delight or trust. Zevran considered of a dozen ways to frame his protest, but knew better than to give breath to their argument. There would be time enough for that after Orion got that bee out of his cowl about seeing Anders and delivering the cat, assuming, of course, they both lived.

 

He and Orion kept a very simple set of rules. One night not long after he defeated the archdemon, they settled with a roll of parchment and a fine quill-tipped pen to write them out. Orion insisted it wasn't a contract, but writing things down kept him from forgetting. He wrote down everything he wanted to remember.

 

Though Orion faced down the Fade, the Broodmother and Branka with little change in his mental state, he became withdrawn and remote after the shock of losing his arm in the Deep Roads. In the months after, he almost ceased to be Orion, existing only as the Warden. He focused solely on recovering his strength and killing the archdemon. After the Blight, Orion constantly feared losing himself to the taint, to his own objectives, or to that same fog brought on by incredible pain and trauma. He always kept a journal sealed with a magical rune. Only he and Zevran knew how to unlock it.

 

One of their rules was that Zevran wasn't allowed to read the journal unless Orion died. As if Zevran would stay alive long enough to read it upon his death.

 

Another one of the rules was that they split responsibility, 50/50. Zevran was in charge in Antiva and could petition for leadership in Rivain and Orlais, dependent on the situation. Orion was in charge everywhere else. Of course that wasn't really 50/50, but that was the rule as Orion wrote it.

 

Per the rules, Zevran was not 'allowed' to argue with Orion's executive decisions. Not that it always kept him from doing so, but he had always taken a bit of comfort in Orion's willingness to lead. He wasn't a perfect leader, but he shouldered the responsibility with a fiercely determined sense of purpose and righteousness. Zevran was tremendously practical when making decisions for the Crows, but perhaps a little too eager to fall into step behind Orion when the time called for it.

 

Zevran's favorite rule was "freedom with disclosure". They were both allowed to have affairs while traveling, so long as they produced no bastards and were careful about diseases, and promised to tell each other all about it afterward. Neither had actually utilized this rule, almost disappointingly so. Instead, Orion laughingly told him of dancing with Nathaniel and Anders at Vigil's Keep and only being propositioned by a very drunk Ohgren, who once again mistook him for a woman in his robes. In return, Zevran related the amusing tale of meeting the Champion of Kirkwall only to have his offers shot down by none other than Anders.

 

He thought deeply on that particular rule as he watched a particular luscious posterior leave the alienage with him one late afternoon. It belonged to a light-skinned, light-haired elf man. There was a sway about the elf that Zevran recognized as familiar. Confidence and beauty. He had a sort of delicate countenance that suggested someone who did not labor for a living. His fine clothes were tailored just for him, cut to be smart and suggestive. If Zevran had to put money on it, he would guess the man was a prostitute.

 

Not that he needed any such companionship, but prostitutes were usually just as willing to be paid for their company - and their information - as they were their bedroom skills. Why not? What loyalty did they have to anyone?

 

Zevran lurked around several merchant stalls until his fair-haired conquest slipped into the tavern. The Hanged Man, of course. The sign always made him smile a little. The first time he saw it, Orion pointed at the sign and snickered. _He's well-hung._

 

It was the work of a few well-practiced steps and gestures to make his way into the tavern, up to the bar and order the elf a drink. In the work of a few more moments he learned the man's name was Jethann. He hadn't started coming in until after the conflict, and he came here to drink, not socialize. Zevran decided to take the chance and sat down in front of him once the barmaid sent the ale along.

 

"I should tell you right now, I don't do business here, only at the Blooming Rose, and it’s my day off," Jethann said, not looking up from his ale. "Normally I'd say you can't afford me anyway if you're drinking your ale here, but you like you just might be able to." Jethann turned on the charm a little bit more, visibly shoving his annoyance away at being interrupted to offer a friendly smile.

 

"Is there enough of the Blooming Rose to even do business in right now?" Zevran replied.

 

"There will be soon enough. Kirkwall is still a port town, and we still need sailor's coins."

 

"I know just what you mean," Zevran said. "I’m from Antiva City."

 

"An Antivan elf all the way out here?" Jethann raised an eyebrow, studying Zevran’s face. He knew enough to know the tattoos weren’t Dalish, but there were others elves reputed to mark their faces. "Either you're a Crow or you have a very interesting life story."

 

"Or both."

 

"Or both," Jethann agreed. "Here to tell me all about it?"

 

"Actually," Zevran said, raising his mug, "I wanted to know a little bit more about you."

 

 

Fenris and Orion traveled together for well over a week with very little to say to each other. Orion might have been avoiding conversation, or perhaps he was waiting for Fenris to open up to communication. Whatever the case, they did not bond so much as travel shoulder-by-shoulder as allies. That was well enough, for Fenris had precious little to say to a mage. He was interested in finding out how Orion possibly planned to take over a city with a force as weak as a few families from the alienage. He wanted to be sure it didn’t involve more large-scale acts of destruction. He could still taste the poison that crazed Dalish woman unleashed on the city, and the stink of blackened stones that littered the city after Anders destroyed the Chantry.

 

Fenris liked Orion best when he was covered blood, laughing as he fought. Unlike Anders or Merrill, he didn’t rely on disgusting methods for his power, though he drank more lyrium than any mage Fenris ever met. During fights he conjured armor like light and blasted ice and lightning from his fingertips. Today it was spiders, "an old favorite" as Orion put it. The loathsome arachnids dropped from the ceiling of the damp cave they explored, hoping to make into a camp on a rainy night. The spiders clattered their sharp and dangerous appendages and spat poison. One attack stung Fenris. His joints locked as one of the beasts prepared to wrap him in silk. Orion flew to his assistance, casting a curative spell. Revitalized, Fenris sliced the beast in half. The smell was terrifically bad, and now they were both coated in the slime.

 

"We'll have to check this place for egg sacks, otherwise we might have a really ugly wake up in the middle of the night," Orion said.

 

Fenris laughed. It echoed off of the sides of the rocky caves with the sound of driving rain.

 

Orion didn't ask him why, just smiled over his shoulder from where he was extracting some venom from one of the dead spider's sacks.

 

Lawrence would have asked him why he laughed. He would have been ready with one more reason to laugh, and Anders would grudgingly hold his tongue because he didn't want to smile at the same time Fenris did.

 

Still, they were comfortable enough like this, cleaning up and clearing a spot on the floor for their bedrolls. After setting up camp and fire, Orion set up a spell wisp for a little extra light. Fenris hated the ghostly, unnatural light of the spell wisp, brighter and colder than the light of day. He grimaced as he wiped down his sword.

 

"It's a nice sword," Orion said, breaking through the silence like a child stumbling into a cart of apples. He didn't have the consideration to look sheepish about it. "I've never seen one like that. Is it... Rivaini?"

 

"It's Tevinter. A sword of mercy, modeled after the one used to kill Andraste. It’s given as a gift of honor and highly prized amidst the magisters. It was a gift from Hawke.” Fenris described the weapon with no small amount of pride. “I appreciate the irony of wielding it.” 

 

"A very fine sword, then," Orion said, impressed.

 

"One completely unbefitting a former slave," Fenris said with grim satisfaction.

 

Missing the implication of Fenris's dry tone, Orion said, "I don't know, it seems befitting of you. You're sharp and elegant, and it surely sees more use from you than it would in the hands of some magister. Weapons are beautiful, yes, but there's no point in having them if they aren't to be used."

 

Anders would have brought up something about mages, but Orion added nothing more.

 

"Your staff is dragonbone," Fenris said after a lmoment.

 

"It was made for me from the bones of the archdemon. I have a connection to it, so it’s hard to let it out of my sight."

 

"And your arm, that is..." Perhaps Fenris should not have mentioned the arm. He did not know the etiquette there. A slave missing a limb would be considered quite a poor investment. Even a miner or craftsman in Kirkwall wouldn't likely survive such an injury without the aid of an expert healer. Though there were stories of pirates with peg legs, Fenris met precious few people getting around with such a considerable impairment.

 

"Wood, with hammered silverite and lyrium runes. I use it to focus my concentration through as I did when I was... when I had my arm. It's a little like having two staffs, or a really awkwardly shaped shield. It requires an insane amount of concentration, and sometimes my spells fail, but when they work, they are more powerful than most mages."

 

"Why did you simply not give up on casting?" Fenris asked with some disdain. He understood that mages couldn't help their connection to the Fade, but losing power in such a way seemed like a perfect reason to stop.

 

"I had to stop the Blight," Orion said simply. "And I was never much good with a sword, even though I can wield one now and then. After gathering the armies together, I couldn’t just stand in the back and cheer while they risked their lives. I would have pulled out all my hair." He admitted the fault with a touch of good humor. "Why ask such a thing? I am a mage. It is what I am best at."

 

"But such a terrible power, and the temptation of demons always pursuing. Surely they must be all the louder now, offering to help you become stronger."

 

Orion rubbed a lock of hair against his cheek. He didn't raise his voice, but rather posed a question almost rhetorically. "You know what a terrible power is? That lyrium ghost thing you do. You're half in the Fade yourself. In fact, I would not be surprised if you'd been a mage before that was done to you. It may be the only reason you were able to survive it."

 

Fenris felt the rush of chaotic, white-hot power that filled him when his temper incited his brands. 

The glow illuminated the cave more brightly as the spell-wisp, throwing ghostly shadows.

 

"I am not," he began, struggling for control, "A mage."

 

"You don't remember, right? Maybe you were." Orion said it with no malice, but the words still pecked at Fenris, sharp and painful.

 

Fenris stood up abruptly. It was slightly ineffective to stomp in sand, but he did the best he could. He stopped only as the rain began to dampen his brow, and stood looking out to the endless black. He could smell the sea and the rain and sand, but now that it was night, he could not quite see it.

 

Lawrence would have trailed after him. Orion did not. Did he even care whether or not he left?

 

Orion didn't call out to him as he left, or even stand up. Fenris decided that was for the better, and walked out into the rain.

 

The steady rain turned bitter closer to the sea. Fenris grit his teeth to it, growling out his wordless frustration. The wet sand was unpleasant against his bare feet. The cold was enough of a shock to calm his temper. His brands returned to normal.

 

The sea churned, fierce and frothing. The wind roared in his ears like the dragon he and Lawrence once fought in the Bone Pit. Fenris had to close his eyes. The downpour stung them, but the black behind his eyelids provided no comfort either.

 

What did he intend to do? He abandoned Lawrence. Or, more accurately, Lawrence was lost to him years ago. He ran from Isabela, jittery about the warmth of her curves pressed against him.

 

Numbness began to creep up his fingers and toes. Fenris decided to go back, if only for the night. There was no sense in catching consumption or worse out here. He did not know what he could say to Orion after storming off, and resolved to say nothing at all. Orion did not deserve his reply.

 

He felt a small hand on his forearm. Fenris opened his eyes, peering through the wet, white mat of his bangs. There was Orion, his spell wisp struggling in the rain. His hair whipped about in ragged, wet red ribbons, covering half his face.

 

"Don't jump in," Orion yelled over the din, "I can hardly swim, and with my arm, I'll just sink right to the bottom of the sea."

 

"I was just going back," Fenris shouted.

 

"Oh good, I was worried I'd have to dine alone."

 

"If it's fish, you will have to."

 

By the time they made it back to the cave, both had a case of the teeth-chattering shivers. Orion threw off his armor and pulled off his prosthesis, changing into his spare pair of clothes and wrapping the blanket from his bedroll around his shoulders. He was kind enough to look away while Fenris did the same.

 

"I'm sorry about the smell," Orion said as he roasted a salmon he caught earlier during the day over the fire. As consolation he allowed Fenris his share of the jerky and a larger portion of the hard biscuit they split between them. Little more was said as they finished their meals too close to the fire.

 

They were back to repairing their weapons and armor when Orion worked up to speaking to Fenris again.

 

"I'm sorry for what I said. I didn't mean to offend you."

 

Fenris didn’t look up from polishing his breastplate. "Do you really believe what you said? That I might have been a mage before I was disfigured?"

 

"I don't know," Orion said with an honest shrug. "I was just thinking aloud. Running my mouth off. I do that sometimes. Sorry.” He stopped, and carefully said, “I don't know anything about what was done to you."

 

"You don't," Fenris agreed with finality. They lapsed into enough silence that he was sure the conversation was done, but Orion broke in again.

 

"I was just trying to make a point. If the Knight-Commander had known what you were, she would have locked you up, just like she would have locked up Lawrence Hawke. And Anders."

 

_And you_ , Fenris nearly said.

 

"And me." Orion said thoughtfully. He wrapped his hair in his two fingers again, a distracting movement as he spoke. "What you do draws power from the Fade. And just like the power of mages, in the wrong hands, it could be very dangerous."

 

"I do not hear demons," Fenris growled.

 

"Maybe they're scared of you."

 

It was a joke. Fenris didn't like it. "Mm."

 

"It doesn't matter, anyway. We're both here, as free men as any elf can be. Everything else is just details."

 

"You and I are not alike." Fenris hated this argument with Anders, and he hated it now.

 

"No, but that doesn't mean we have nothing in common. I need to know you'll stick with me. If something I say bothers you, just call me an idiot and be done with it. Don't throw a tantrum. We don’t have time to waste on emotional problems, and next time I might not have dry clothes to change into."

 

"Why did you recruit me? You barely know me." For all Orion knew, Fenris was like this all the time. Testy, terse, and difficult to deal with. It was best if he knew about it now.

 

“It’s what I do. I see people’s potential and then I utilize it. It’s something about my face, maybe. People just trust me.” Orion shrugged.

 

"I don’t trust mages. I am not your potential to utilize.”

 

“I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t want to bind you to me, or make you do anything you don’t already want to do. I need you. If you don’t understand that, why did you come with me?”

 

Fenris lapsed into a long silence, searching for an answer. He looked over to where Orion sat staring intently into the fire. The hair he'd been playing with was now in his mouth, and he chewed and sucked on it absentmindedly. The effect was rather the opposite of impressive or intimidating.

 

Lawrence was far more dignified in appearance, though his chin was always stubbled with the attempt to grow a beard. It was a point of personal pride that he kept his hair long and his robes as fine and expensive as he could manage. Both of these tendencies faded on the run, but Anders kept combing his hair each night, gently working out each knot with a tarnished silver comb with a mother-of-pearl handle. Fenris suspected it once belonged to Bethany or Leandra.

 

He held that image of them both in his mind for a long moment. Where were they now? Hiding in a secret city of caves carved into a cliff side where whispers of revolution echoed off the cold stone. Would Lawrence’s jokes be enough to talk them out of blood magic and more explosions? Would he finally talk Anders into seeking refuge in Ferelden? Fenris imagined a cot Lawrence and Anders shared in a damp space with a dozen other mages. Anders combed out Lawrence’s hair as they talked about the day.

 

Fenris did not want to believe Lawrence could possibly be happy. But in his own daydream, Lawrence smiled tiredly but contentedly. This was the life he chose.

 

“I couldn’t follow Hawke any longer.” But Fenris still had a need to follow someone. In spite of his oddness, Orion held a kind of charm. He spoke of having a trustworthy face, but it might be his earnest demeanor that caused people like Fenris to follow him.

 

“It seems like you mean a lot to him. To Anders too, I think.”

 

Fenris snorted. “That abomination told Hawke to stop speaking to me.”

 

“You can care about someone and hate their company, believe me,” Orion said with a shake of his head. “I shouldn’t have brought him up, though.”

 

Fenris made a disinterested sound, hoping that they were done talking for the night.

 

“Tell me about Kirkwall, instead?”

 

“You’ve been there.” _It feels_ , Fenris once told Aveline. It felt enough like home to hurt to leave, but he was not looking forward to returning to the shadow of what it once was. Tactically, it seemed a rather unwise thing for a famous mage and a known companion of the Champion to do. Fenris did not do much hiding or cowering. His presence was no secret to Hightown. He was not sure he wanted to start laying low now.

 

“I think the elves can take this city, but it would be better not to have to turn it into a full-on war with what remains of city guard and human population. Not to mention that the templars may get involved if they realize we’re behind it.”

 

“The captain of the guard is a Fereldan refugee. She has the loyalty of the citizens.” Fenris did not tell Orion of his friendship with Aveline or her husband Donnic. Whatever Orion’s plan involved, if it meant betraying either of them, he would be in a difficult position.

 

“She’d make a good ally.”

 

“She will not give up leadership to you. It is her city.” _Theirs._ “You have no business taking over.”

 

Orion untwisted his hair from his fingers and rubbed the damp tips of his hair between his thumb and forefinger, tugging a few strands out. Fenris watched in horrified fascination as Orion broke up the strands of hair between his fingers as he spoke, and threw those on the dirt. “And you? Would she let you take over? You helped during the Qunari uprising, after all.”

 

“An elf can’t be made viscount.”

 

“Can’t become an Arl either, and I got around it. All it takes is for one elf to do it. What are they going to do, riot? Admit aloud to an entire city full of elves that we’re not as good, so soon after what happened to the Chantry?”

 

“They might. It could be their excuse.”

 

“It would be a huge mistake to risk another uprising. They’ll be afraid of us.”

 

“Is that really want you want? To rule by fear?” Fenris spat.

 

“I want a place where elves rule themselves, instead of bowing and scraping to humans who live on our backs. The nobility in Kirkwall is depleted, and there’s no Chantry to enforce the old rules. They’ll send their lackeys to investigate, but they’re far too busy to worry much about it now. Don’t you hate how elves are treated?”

 

“I was a slave. Life in the alienage is poor, but all who live in Lowtown are. They are free, and they take it for granted.” The words were like his sword drills, he did not have to think to say them, their shape was so familiar. This was the sort of argument he often had of Merrill, always talking about the plight of their people. As if that excused what she did.

 

“More freedom than slavery isn’t the same thing as freedom. I promise you, I’ll never forget who you are. But humans benefit from elves like you not taking an interest in your own people. They count on it. We cannot hold land, we cannot hold positions, our legacies are squalid ghettos and aravels when we once had grand palaces and halls. We could do so much more than simply hold on and attempt to survive while we slowly accept we’ll either die out or only exist as breed stock for the Imperium in a thousand years.”

 

“Are you so obsessed with recapturing some imagined greatness? If that’s what you want, why don’t you just take it, like the magisters?” Fenris’s voice rose loudly in the cave, echoing off the stone with a buzzing twang.

 

Orion’s eyes were bright with anger, but his voice remained even. “I could take it. I could take it just for me and my lover and our friends. But what about everyone else, Fenris? You’re angry about what happened to you, and I am too. I am angry about what has been done to you, to all of us. But I don’t know a spell to change the past. I couldn’t unless I kept your parents from being made slaves, or maybe it was your parents’ parents, or theirs, or their grandparents. Or maybe none of it could be prevented unless I found a way to keep humans from ever meeting elves, from ever stealing the magic of Arlathan and polluting it. If I had the power to do that I would, so the humans never create the Blight and never make their Maker turn His back on creation and there would be no Wardens and darkspawn, no Circles and Chantry and templars and no Anders to rage against them, no alienages and no slaves!” Orion’s composure nearly cracked at the end. He stared at Fenris, so furious that the muscle underneath his right eye twitched.

 

The ocean continued to roar and churn in the distance, seeming closer to the cave in all that silence. Water dripped loudly from the mouth of the cage onto the dirt and stone below. Fenris could think of nothing to say in response, so he kept his peace and worked at a small dent in his armor, something he’d need to have hammered out or replaced soon.

 

Orion sighed wearily, pressing his thumb and forefingers to his temples and massaging.

 

“I’m trying to think about the future. Don’t you ever the same?”

 

“There was never any future,” Fenris confessed. There was always one more mission with Hawke, one more pair of trousers to return to a drunken dwarf or a bit more coin to gather. There was always one more reading lesson, one more game of cards in his house or at the Hanged Man. There was always one more night with Isabela. When Kirkwall fell apart, Fenris thought he could live as he did when he first escaped slavery. Now all that pursued him were bad memories. No one was looking for him any longer. Isabela and Lawrence both cared for him deeply, but neither of them needed him.

 

“I felt the same way after the Blight,” Orion said sympathetically. When Fenris didn’t respond, he added, “I didn’t know what to do when I found myself alive. They wouldn’t allow me to go back to the Circle, which is all I ever wanted when it began. I had to forge ahead. Even if I didn’t know what I was going to do next. Even if it frightened me. And now I’ve stopped letting the wind buffet me around and I’ve decided what I want to do.”

 

“Just so long as whatever you’re planning doesn’t involve bombs,” Fenris replied grudgingly.

 

“Not bombs, politics. A thousand times worse.” Orion wrinkled his nose in distaste.

 

“I doubt very much the people who died in the Chantry would agree.”

 

“No, but the first of our ancestors forced into cities and hiding might.”

 

Another gap in conversation. Fenris never realized how much he missed Lawrence’s puns and eyebrow-wiggling jibs. Orion fidgeted. He adjusted his prosthetic on his shoulder and cleared his throat.

 

“What do you want, Fenris?” Orion finally asked.

 

“Are you really planning to fight Tevinter? Make war on your kind?”

 

“Elves? I am worried about it. That’s why I hope we can sew some sort of rebellion before it goes to full-scale war. The truth is, even if we rallied every elf alive we might not be able to do it without help from inside.”

 

“I meant mages.”

 

“Those magisters are not my kind. You can’t really believe that they are.”

 

Fenris wasn’t sure, so he quickly changed the subject. “You may never find your family.” He couldn’t keep from saying _family_ like a curse word, his upper lip curling. “If you do, you may not like what you find.”

 

“I have to risk it.”

 

Fenris nodded. He could understand that, at least. He also disliked the disconnected feeling of having loose ends in the Imperium, though he would have killed Varania if Varric and Lawrence hadn’t talked him out of it. “You’ll need help. And I must admit, the idea of cutting the Imperium down to size is appealing.”

 

Orion nodded, his lips quirking upward slightly.

 

“I also wouldn’t mind a few bombs. Perhaps in the Senate house.”

 

Orion chuckled. “In that case, I’ll make an exception and be sure to arrange some especially for you.”

 

“I’d like that.” As horrific as it had been to witness the bright, unnatural destruction of the Chantry, Fenris could not helped but be pleased at the daydream of doing the same to the iniquitous magisters.

 

Orion leaned forward, studying Fenris’s face. “Is that a smile?” He asked, smirking.

 

“No,” said Fenris, frowning emphatically.

 

“You were at least thinking about it,” Orion insisted.

 

“No.”

 

“Good to know you’re on board with this whole thing.”

 

“I never said that.”

 

Orion wouldn’t let go of his amusement, no matter how Fenris scowled. “It’s okay, I won’t tell anyone how handsome you are when you smile.”

 

“I didn’t smile.”

 

Orion just laughed. The night was still cold, dark, wet and ugly. But in their cave, the warmth enveloped them and the stone of the cliff side protected them. It was their own world filled with an almost dull and ordinary peace, wrapped around them comfortably as an old blanket. Fenris was annoyed with Orion, but he was used to annoyance and disagreements. They were something he had long come to associate with friendship.

 

 

The interior of the Hanged Man was as seedy as the name and sign suggested. Its interior was punctuated with the fumes of old fires and sour ale and an early-day drunk being sick in one corner. Jethann shone in the center of it all, clean and well-mannered, his posture proud and straight. He spoke with grace but a slight lisp that suggested he learned his phrasing from listening rather than direct elocution that would have trained out the errors. He was not precisely some well-trained courtesan with a golden fan, but he wore his burdens well and smiled frequently. Zevran found his company to be outright tolerable, and his blue eyes particularly wonderful to gaze into.

 

“My story’s pretty typical. Never knew my father - my mother said he was carted off to the Circle, but I think she might just have been trying to spare my feelings. When I was a little older, I went over to the Gallows and asked, and none of the elves seemed to know anything about that. Even the Tranquil.” Jethann made a little _moue_ of distaste, tapping the corner of his mug against the table several beats before setting it down. “It doesn’t really matter. My mother died when I was young. Her sister-in-law took the younger children she left behind, but she couldn’t afford another mouth to feed on top of them. The brothel was less risky than smuggling, not to mention free room and board. I started out cleaning up the rooms and doing the dishes, things like that. When I was old enough, I became an apprentice, and I’ve been at the Rose ever since.”

 

“Not a bad life for an elf in this city, no?”

 

“A lot better than most of us could hope for. I could’ve ended up in Darktown.”

 

Zevran did not ask Jethann if chores were truly all he did as a child, or at which age he became ‘old enough’. He knew well enough what it was to sleep on the flea-bitten mats stretched in front of the kitchen fires in a well-traveled brothel, and what it entailed. Those truths weren’t included in the version of his past that Jethann was willing to share with a stranger. Zevran respected that. After all, everyone had versions of the truth they trotted out for appropriate audiences. There were the complete falsehoods one told to clients and new acquaintances, full of smiles and adorably self-deprecating jokes, slipped into as comfortably and dishonestly as a mask. There were versions that became more truthful with each mug of ale, the awkward confessionals that sometimes broke free after a particularly painful trauma or uncomfortable period of reflection. Jethann and Zevran were both practiced drinkers, though, and as the sun sank below the crumbling Kirkwall buildings, neither were particularly drunk in spite of consuming the ale like water.

 

“I can’t really believe you’re here to ask all about me, though,” Jethann said over his mug. His pale eyes held the lamplight, giving him a cunning look. Up close, elves never looked so delicate as they did from a distance. Jethann was no different. “No one really cares about the story of a whore. So. Who are you trying to get close to? I’m not selling out any of my clients or coworkers. Except maybe Sabina, I’d give her to you on a silver platter. Her and her terrible little boy.”

 

Zevran laughed because it was expected, not because he knew Sabina or her terrible little boy. The hierarchies in insulated places like brothels and alienages mimicked the ugliness of Antivan courts, every bit as petty and backstabbing. Sometimes the sense of solidarity was all but replaced by greed and vanity, and thus, the need to get anything done was replaced by the need to somehow get one over on makeshift enemies.

 

“If I wanted to get you to sell someone out, I would tell you, offer a price,” Zevran insisted, playing at being offended.

 

“Isn’t that exactly what you’d tell me if you were trying to get me to rat on someone?” Jethann raised an eyebrow.

 

“Probably, but I’m really not,” Zevran volleyed back amicably.

 

“You haven’t answered my question, though.”

 

“Did you have a question?” Zevran teased.

 

“What do you want? I like you, but you’re not going to win a free night with me no matter how high your cheekbones are or how pouty your lips or how charming your laugh.”

 

“How many elves still live in Kirkwall? And how do they fare? Who is the elder in the alienage?”

 

Jethann was genuinely surprised by the question. “...You don’t seem like the kind to be concerned for your fellow elf.”

 

“You don’t think I’m sharing these drinks out of a sense of solidarity?” Zevran smirked. “I’m hurt.”

 

“You don’t strike me as an altruist, either.”

 

“Would you believe I’m acting on behalf of an altruist?”

 

“I suppose that’s slightly more convincing. A new hahren hasn’t been named since the last one died during the fighting, but his widow, Ninah, has attended the same duties, and is even planning to begin matchmaking again soon. She’s as good with people as her husband was, and as old and gray, so it’s a pretty good arrangement.”

 

“Do you think you could introduce me?”

 

“You’re living over there, aren’t you? I’m surprised she hasn’t pestered you yet.”

 

Zevran blinked innocently.

 

“I saw you following me. You were looking at my backside.”

 

“And such a fine backside it is, with round, pert buttocks. It reminded me of a sonnet I know, would you like to hear it?”

 

“It will cost you a sovereign for me to put up with that,” Jethann said with a sour expression.

 

“So expensive! At that rate, couldn’t we just sleep together?”

 

“You could sleep with me, if you’d like.” A bit of Jethann’s humor returned. He tapped his fingertips together, hiding his smile behind their steeple. “If, like I said, you can actually afford it.”

 

“So how much would it cost for you to introduce me to the acting elder?”

 

“Are whores so special in Antiva that an introduction by one would be desirable?”

 

“I wasn’t just looking at your backside. Many elves smiled at you and spoke to you kindly as you left the alienage. You were there visiting your family, yes?”

 

Jethann called the barmaid for more ale. “I don’t like being followed. You’re not doing some kind of obsessive thing where you’re planning to follow me, send me flowers, and then chop me up into little bits, are you?”

 

“That’s a remarkably specific concern you have.”

 

“Kirkwall is a terrible city.” Jethann sighed bitterly. “You’d be better off leaving before it sucks you into its mire. The moment you have any kind of hope, something turns up to dash it into pieces. All you can really do is try to survive it.”

 

The lamplight and shadows played just right to turn Jethann’s hair gold. For a moment, Zevran saw himself mirrored in that sadness. He wished there were some way to touch the other man gently, to comfort him, but such an advance would likely be unwelcome and misunderstood.

 

“It needn’t be,” Zevran said after a moment of consideration. “Believe me when I say that.” When exactly had he become a purveyor of speeches? Orion was influencing him and he wasn’t even here. Zevran shook his head and finally took a swig of his new ale. It made him cough and sputter. “A change of subject is in order, yes? Have you ever learned to wield a sword or bow? Perhaps daggers? I’ve seen you move, and I think you’d be quite a graceful fighter.”

 

Jethann laughed and the moment was better, but not perfect. There were so few perfect moments these days.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

_Years ago, I never would’ve imagined that I could come to think of assassins as friends. Now they are a delight to me, especially after weeks of sour-faced Fenris. There is something magical about how rogues move. They dance and laugh. They move as if never troubled by the heaviness of their lives. How I wish I could move with grace. As long as I wear the arm, I am not much of a dancer._

_People are never as they appear. This is what I try to keep in mind when I speak to Fenris. All of us wear our hurt differently. Crows laugh, Crows caw. Mages live their lives with one foot in the Fade and do fantastic things. But what can Fenris do but be angry?_

-From the journal of Orion Surana

 

Fenris and Orion encountered three couriers breaking down camp on the Wounded Coast. Orion waved and smiled with naked delight at the sight of the two elves and a dwarf. As they approached, Fenris noticed they all wore tattoos and a sort of playful prettiness that reminded him of Zevran Arainai. The dwarf woman wore a brand on her cheek rather than the black, fanciful lines, Fenris assumed this made her part of the casteless Varric described. Though they carried only rudimentary weapons and a letter bag, his instincts him of danger. Fenris stayed a few paces behind, watching them as Orion stepped into their camp and made himself at home, adding to their fire with a spell. Clearly this group was known to him. That didn’t increase Fenris’s trust.

“Spark, Ivette, what brings you all the way to Kirkwall?” Orion specifically addressed the two women in the group.

“We have some letters to deliver,” the taller woman replied with a bright smile. Tan and freckled, the woman wore her light brown hair in a cloud of untamed curls. Her hazel eyes sparkled brightly with mischief. Though her build suggested an elf, her ears, while elongated, were not pointed. “A special delivery, in fact.”

“And what sort of delivery requires an entourage like this?” Fenris asked.

“A delivery of Crows to help train the elves of this city to fight, I suppose,” Orion said. He proceeded to introduce the women to Fenris. The half-elf woman was Ivette. Her dwarf companion was darker, sharper, and wore her head shaved: Spark. The other elf traveling with them was raven-haired, complexion and hazel eyes quite similar to Ivette’s, though his ears were definitely pointed. Ivette introduced him as Alano. “He doesn’t talk.”

Ivette was clearly the leader of the group, or at least the talker. Orion and she fell to chattering about their journeys and some developments Ivette noticed passing through Starkhaven. Fenris paced around their campfire like a caged beast, anxious to finish their journey.

Alano offered him a skewered, roasted fish. Fenris wrinkled his nose. “No.”

Alano continued to offer. Fenris looked helplessly to Spark, tucking voraciously into her fish.

“He’s mute, not deaf, fancy boy,” Spark said, licking her fingers. “Try using your manners.”

Fenris frowned. “No, thank you.”

Alano shrugged and returned to his spot by the fire, nibbling his fish daintily.

Orion and Ivette finished their chat, trading a few items and exchanging smiles and pats on the arm.

“We’re going to go on ahead,” Orion said. “It wouldn’t be good for us to arrive all together, we’d definitely look suspicious.”

Fenris had his doubts about he and Orion looking much less suspicious on their own, but nodded. In spite of the amiable nature of the camp, he could not shake the feeling he was in another cave full of venom-spitting spiders. He wondered if that courier cover really worked that well for three very obvious assassins.

Once they were further down the path, Fenris said, “Why are the Crows getting involved?”

Orion sipped from a vial of lyrium he obtained from Ivette. Fenris did not disguise his sneer of disgust when Orion licked the shimmer off his lips before speaking. “Dual-wielding blades is the most effective way for most elves to fight, and we’ll need the extra muscle. I put Zevran Arainai in charge of teaching some self-defense in the alienage, and I’m sure he called on his colleagues for assistance. Or perhaps there really is a message for him from the City of Antiva.”

Fenris stopped walking. A few paces ahead, Orion paused as well, sucking down the last of the lyrium before shoving the bottle back into his carryall. Kirkwall in its decayed glory was visible in the distance, the whiff of air carrying the smell of the sea but also crumbling, wet timber.

“You said that this plan of yours involved politics.”

“I will do my utmost to make sure this resolved peacefully, but it’s as you said. They won’t just let elves take the city. They may try to kill us for daring to try. You and I can handle that, but what about the ordinary elves in the alienage?”

Fenris thought of the chaos after the Chantry fell and narrowed his eyes. “So you do mean to start some sort of uprising. Why involve the alienage elves at all, in that case? Are you so in need of fresh elf corpses?”

Orion closed the distance between them. Fenris stood taller than he, but he looked up without wavering. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt, even humans. The elves in the alienage are who this is for, so they should be involved. But we must be ready for the contingency that the humans don’t find us worthy of autonomy. That they would attempt to massacre us for not wishing to remain under their heels.” Orion placed his right hand on his hip. It was clear he was waiting for Fenris to respond, to yell or compare him to Anders. The thought did cross his mind, but Fenris didn’t rise to the bait.

“You intend your plan to fail, then.” Fenris’s voice dripped with disdain. He was still prepared for Orion to transform, as Anders had, excusing his blood thirst with his so-called Justice.

“No.” Orion said firmly. “I want it to work - talking it over with those who still carry power in the city, and establishing an elf viscount and possibly a counsel. Elves have as much a right to Kirkwall as any other people, maybe more, considering its history as a slaving hub. This city is a ruin and what influence it had is has all but dissolved. They should have no problem letting us have a chance at rebuilding it for us. It could even improve the lives of the poorest humans living here. But with what you know of human nature, does that really seem possible? Do you expect them to give us something we want, even if it’s something they don’t want?”

An ugly thought pierced Fenris. Hadriana often threw his food on the floor or held it out of his reach, laughing as he scrambled after it. Even though she had plenty to eat, she delighted in keeping scraps from him for no more reason than cruelty. He did not want to imagine that leaders such as Aveline would behave so irrationally, but he could not, in his heart, dismiss the possibility.

“I understand,” Fenris said.

“Good,” Orion said. His lips turned up in what seemed more like the attempt at an a smile than an actual expression of happiness. The effect was almost more of a grimace. “Some elves will undoubtedly prefer to learn how to wield a sword. I hope you’ll help with that.”

“I’m no teacher,” Fenris objected gruffly.

“Don’t worry, I believe in you,” Orion said with a dismissive wave of his hand, turning to walk ahead again. In spite of being a mage, he always insisted on taking point. Just as well, because Fenris never much liked the feeling of a mage walking behind him. Kirkwall was not far now.

I believe in you, Orion said.

Fenris recalled his conversation with Anders: “When will you stop believing you can accomplish everything just by believing it?”

"Whenever it stops working.”

 

Jethann wiped the sweat from his brow, watching a few drops of it spatter on dirt and broken cobblestone. He was out of breath in the best way, aching all over from exertion. During his life he experienced this sort of pleasure many times, with the right kind of person, and many more times he’d felt these aches as part of the irritation of a sometimes-difficult job. But in the last few weeks, with Zevran’s help, he learned how to stretch and exercise entirely new muscles. He rather liked the drills. There was a precision to them, a rhythm that appealed to his exacting nature. He knew he was doing well because Zevran pulled him out of the group of elves to tutor him privately, on his own time.

So here they were. Practicing in an alley of the alienage with one of the local urchins playing lookout as they banged dummy short swords in the lamplight. It was certainly the least orthodox method of courtship Jethann ever experienced, but also the most fun.

“Just a moment,” Jethann wheezed, pushing his sweat-damp hair from his brow. During work hours, clients complimented his stamina. Zevran did quite the opposite.

“Now now, do you think your enemy will give you time to catch your breath?” Zevran teased, but did not advance upon Jethann. “I suppose it’s true what they say about the men and women in the Blooming Rose, that they do nothing but lay around on silk sheets feeding each other with bonbons!”

Jethann laughed, and raised his weapon. “You’re only jealous no one likes you well enough to send you bonbons!” he countered, and attacked.

Zevran liked to punctuate his movements with loud laughs, though they were not always in time with his actual thrusts. His laugh was one of many charming distractions. Zevran told him that charm was every beautiful elf’s weapon, especially a rogue’s. His eyes gleamed a catlike gold in the lamplight and easily met each of Jethann’s attacks.

“Now now, you are only fending off, you’re not striking back! At this rate, I shall exhaust you and overcome you in a few minutes!”

“You could overcome me any day of the week!” Jethann replied as they locked weapons and gazes.

“That’s a far cry from ‘Not during my off-hours’!” Zevran teased.

Jethann twisted his wrists and backed up, breaking the lock of their weapons. A lesser fighter might have stumbled for balance, but Zevran simply flowed with the movements, stepping backward like that’s what he intended all along. Jethann favored Zevran with a wink. “I’m just trying to be charming.”

“Such modesty, to call it only trying,” Zevran replied, faking blow from the right, only to land a tap on Jethann with his left sword. “I win again, friend.”

The lookout called like a gull, indicating someone of unknown means was approaching. Zevran snatched Jethann’s practice weapons from him, shoving them into a dirty barrel nearby. Jethann killed the lamps, and by the time they were approached, they were pressed together against the alley wall.

All that Jethann could think about is how they were both quite sweaty. Zevran kept a fine appearance, but neither of them smelled particularly sweet right now. They had that sharp musk of exertion about them. With their blood still hot from training, it wasn’t entirely a bad scent. Zevran braced his body to the brick of the wall, and murmured something in his ear in Antivan.

Sensing Zevran’s guard was down, Jethann grabbed his chin and kissed him with purpose. He could feel Zevran tensing slightly in surprise, and then returning the kiss with a deep chuckle of delight. They tasted each other’s tongues for a few moment, at a much more languid pace than they’d parried weapons.

Yet the person passing through the alley didn’t move on. Jethann broke away to catch a look, though Zevran, unconcerned, nuzzled his neck.

It was an elf he didn’t recognize. Red-haired and dark-skinned with face tattoos, dressed dirty leather armor. Behind him was a taller, imposing figure that Jethann recognized immediately. Fenris, the tattooed elf of Hightown. He was giving a look of disapproval, but that might have just been his default expression. Jethann slapped Zevran’s shoulder to get him to pay attention. “We have company!” Jethann said in a singsong voice.

“Oh, it’s alright,” said the redhead. “I don’t mind watching.”

“I do,” said Fenris.

Zevran let go of Jethann then, and caught the red-haired elf up in a fierce embrace. “Mi amor,” he said, and kissed him with a fierce gusto he hadn’t quite attained with Jethann. Jethann crossed his arms, leaning back on the wall, not sure if he should leave. In his line of work he was used to witnessing all sorts of affection and being cast aside as an unwanted toy. He reminded himself that he was the one that kissed Zevran, just wanting some progress from all that flirtation. It was not a real kiss, but another part of the spar. It was just another one of Zevran’s arsenal of weapons, his charm, he even told Jethann as much. Still, Jethann was both curious and a little awkward.

Introductions were made all around. Orion greeted Jethann with approval and enthusiasm. “I hope he’s been behaving himself. If you’d like to slap him for kissing you, you have my permission.”

Jethann laughed. “The only way I hope to beat him is in combat. Someday.”

“For the record,” Zevran said, “He was the one who kissed me. Up until then I was only pressing against him inappropriately.”

“Details,” Orion teased. He touched Zevran’s arm, giving him a serious look. “Shall I meet up with you two again over breakfast?”

“Only if this new, gorgeous tattooed companion will be as much fun for you as I will be,” Zevran said, giving Fenris an appraising look.

“No,” Orion and Fenris replied in unison.

“I just want a bath,” Orion confessed.

Zevran ran his free hand through Orion’s hair and ‘tsked’. “A bath and a trim, and I’ll braid your hair properly,” Zevran said, “You’ve been chewing again.” Orion scowled. Zevran addressed Jethann and Fenris. “Either of you are welcome to join us. Bathing, hair care, massages afterward... it is my Warden friend’s idea of a party.”

Orion leaned his head on Zevran’s shoulder, suddenly seeming quite tired.

“No,” Fenris repeated.

“Maybe next time,” Jethann said pleasantly. It did seem like the couple could be fun, but he wasn’t sure he had the energy to engage in those activities with a perfect stranger without going into business mode. He fished his wooden weapons out of the barrel, making his excuses. Orion and Zevran barely acknowledged him, already lost in their own world. Zevran held Orion’s chin with his fingertips and they spoke quietly, giddily, like school children sharing secrets after a holiday apart.

To Jethann’s surprise, Fenris trudged behind him.

“Do you need something?” Jethann didn’t know Fenris well. One night, Isabela introduced them at the Blooming Rose, inviting Jethann to join in their fun together. Fenris couldn’t get comfortable with a third person around. A good sport about the whole thing, Isabela still paid for his time and tipped generously, and she and Fenris continued the night without him. Jethann always rather liked the idea of Fenris, an exotic, tattooed man who spat on the attitudes of the nobles by living where they wanted him least. He was honorable enough that the guard looked the other way. The only mark he had on his record was siding with the mages in the recent conflict, but that was not something Jethann could hold against him. Mages were dangerous, true, but it was no coincidence that templars had the right to hunt the Dalish.

“Hightown is far from here,” Fenris said.

Jethann nodded. Though he was not completely helpless to defend himself, he was greatly comforted that he wouldn’t be accosted by gangs on his way back to the Rose in the presence of an intimidating, armor-clad warrior. Usually if practice took too long at night, he stayed with his sisters in the alienage, making the trip in the morning. Though the Champion took down all the major gangs of the city, old habits died hard. Jethann learned from a young age that it was never a good idea to be an elf alone at night.

As they ascended the steps into Hightown, Fenris broke their silence. “My roof collapsed during the fires. Are there rooms free at the Rose?”

Jethann said, “You could stay with me.”

Fenris stopped, giving Jethann a long and honest once-over.

“Not in that way, just as a friend,” Jethann quickly explained, “Unless you’d like to. Then I’ll ask you to pay.”

Fenris nodded. They took supper at the bar at the Rose. Of the places Fenris visited upon his return, the Rose was in the best repair. It was bright and clean. Even its intriguing corners were surprisingly free of dust and cobwebs. A few workers who were familiar with Fenris as Isabela’s friend were happy to see him. Gamlen, ever drunk and obnoxious as ever, asked after Lawrence’s fate.

“All I can say is that he is well.”

“I wish I could say the same for me,” Gamlen said, “I’m trying to get out of this blighted city before anything else blows up. Uncle of the Champion just doesn’t hold much water now.”

“You’re lucky it ever did,” Fenris scoffed.

Being in the Rose reminded Fenris of how much he missed the simple comfort of the city. No sharp rocks getting lodged in the ball of his foot, no spiders skittering and spitting venom. It was not the same, doing this without Isabela inserting her jokes and innuendo all over the place. He missed her. She once told him everyone deserved to be free. She would have been happy to come along for the ride, acquainted as she was with Orion, Zevran and Fenris. Jethann was witty, but he was gentler, and it was not the same. Eventually the conversation shifted to less suggestive places, and Jethann offered to spar with Fenris sometime.

He leaned in and told him secrets about learning to fight, and how Zevran’s little lessons were so popular he couldn’t teach everyone who was interested without giving himself away. “Don’t look, but pretty much every elf in this brothel has started to learn a few techniques. The ones who didn’t know a few already, at least. There’s a rumor circulating that we’re going to storm the viscount’s keep. Take back what’s ours for once.”

Fenris thought to ask if it was really theirs. He always sort of thought of it as Aveline’s. Then again, it was constructed of stones dragged up from local quarries. Was it not built through the labor of slaves? “Surana said the alienage elder might have sufficient claim to viscount, since the position remains unfilled.”

Jethann snorted. “According to shems, elves never have sufficient claim to anything. There’s no Chantry to wag a finger at them now, but that doesn’t mean their hearts have changed. If anything, it only makes things worse.”

“So you approve of this violence, even led by a mage?”

“They’re the ones who are violent,” Jethann said darkly. “Human men prey on elves like they prey on their women. We’re not people to them.”

Jethann was one gorgeous man, now more than any other time Fenris met him. He was flushed, his words a little blurred, yet he sat steady and straight-backed on the stool. Fenris, slouching and leaning on the bar, found this impressive. This was a very different Jethann, not the coquettish nymph of the Rose Fenris once dismissed him as. Did learning to fight bring about this change, or was this simply a version of himself he rarely let others see?

Human men prey on elves. Fenris knew this quite well. His lip curled at the thought.

He did admire Jethann, but he was not quite as quick to have a casual roll in the sheets as Isabela. He was in no mood to be exposed in such a manner, so he didn’t take Jethann’s offer up. It almost seemed like an afterthought, a politeness, anyway. Jethann never asked him more about it, just as content to drink and converse.

Late into the night, they settled into Jethann’s bed to sleep, drunk and shoulder-to-shoulder. Fenris tried not to think of how many had slept there before. He stared up at the ceiling. The mellowness that accompanied the wine had fled. He thought of his old home not far from there. The mansion’s ceiling was nothing but burnt wood, bird’s nest and sky. Pigeons and rats moved in to accompany the small population of mice, crusting every spare inch with their droppings. He listened to the sound of Jethann’s even breathing, and tried to think of anything but what it felt to have his face pressed to rose-scented pillows.

He might have preferred the stink of his old, decaying house and the scraping of rodent claws to the sweet incense and soap-clean scent of another close by. That troubled him. He left before first light.

 

Zevran knew Orion to be a man of many passions. He was incredibly attached to his books, writing and even more alarmingly to lyrium. Aside from certain sex acts, there was little Orion liked better than those things. Baths, however, were his true weakness. Zevran quickly learned that hot water was the key to unwinding his tightly-coiled lover. In the infancy of their affair, it became a symbol of their intimacy: a quiet, private time to spend touching each other that didn’t necessarily require erotic dalliances. Instead, it was a private way to share their day. Without such routines Zevran suspected they might never have regained physical closeness after Orion lost his arm. Instead, he exploited Orion’s fondness for relaxation, and they relearned their ritual together.

They did not have the luxury of a tub big enough for two tonight. It was a simple wooden tub, barely large enough for one of them, the water kept warm by a small dose of Orion’s magic now and then. He hoped it would be enough to soothe Orion once he took his turn.

Zevran updated Orion on the progress in the alienage while he washed up. Conducting practice in secret proved to be a challenge, but many elves were eager to learn. The ties of the surviving alienage folk were as strong as ironbark. So far as they knew, no one was squealing to the city guard about their activities. In spite of this, guards were growing suspicious of them. The Guard Captain herself often paid unexpected visits to the alienage, and increased patrols in Lowtown, specifically targeting the alienage. And they were locking the gates at night again.

“A fine woman, that Aveline,” Zevran remarked. “She’s determined to make trouble with us. It would be a shame to fight her.”

Orion looked up from the floor of the apartment, where he lined each empty brandy and lyrium bottle against the wall. Upon arrival he complained immediately of the mess, and could not let it go. Zevran chuckled at the sight of the Hero of Ferelden, dusty and on his knees. With Bodahn and Wynne no longer in his life, Orion struggled to keep his life properly tidy. While he was inattentive to his appearance and frequently disheveled, Orion frequently entered a strange mood where he couldn’t accept the least bit of disorder. It was a habit born of nervous energy, honed by a childhood that punished playfulness and misbehavior, much like Zevran’s obsessive upkeep of his leather and weapons. Attempting to assist usually ended in an argument, so Zevran ruefully took the first bath. He hoped he wouldn’t have to drag his lover into enjoying his own favorite activity.

“That’s the Captain of the Guard, right? Fenris lived here for years, I wonder if he knows her. I heard she was a friend of the Champion.”

“Correct. Much like the Champion, she caused quite a stir by rising through the ranks. A sword-and-shield warrior, and as proud and stubborn a Fereldan as you’ve ever met.” Though technically their mission was political in nature, Zevran could not and would not stop sizing up new faces as someone he might have to fight and kill at some point. He was, after all, the Master Assassin of the Crows. Politics and violence were siblings as well as lovers. Their relationship was sinister and both knew it was wrong, but they were inseparable nonetheless.

Orion smirked faintly. “As proud and stubborn as I am?”

“Perhaps, but let’s hope not. Your obstinacy contains a degree of foolishness I would not wish upon most enemies.”

“I think Fenris might give me a run for my money.” Orion spoke to the wall, rotating a bottle of brandy until the label properly faced outward.

“That’s the second time you’ve mentioned Fenris in as many moments,” Zevran said, scrubbing under his arms. He would come out of this smelling of honeysuckle, which usually made Orion want to devour him. He hoped tonight would be no different.

“I’ve spent a lot of time with him lately. Believe me, you’re much better company.” Orion faced the wall still, carefully lining up the second bottle. He gave a soft, dismayed grunt when he realized the lyrium bottle had no discernible front or back, and moved onto the next one.

“He’s very handsome.”

“Is he?” Orion said, carefully careless after all too long a pause.

“Aha.”

“Don’t ‘aha’,” Orion said glumly, “Elves that ‘aha’ don’t get into these robes at the end of the night.”

“All evidence suggests otherwise,” Zevran said, “But if you insist, I will not not ‘aha’. Your wish is my command.” He allowed the threads of conversation to dangle while he went about the business of scrubbing himself thoroughly.

“He hates mages, so there’s nothing at all to ‘aha’,” Orion piped up when his row of bottles against the wall finally satisfactory. Without being asked, he knelt next to Zevran in the tub. “Soap.”

Zevran pressed the soap into Orion’s hand. His lover began to wash his back.

“And yet he helped a pair of apostates.”

“He helped Hawke, whom he clearly wanted to do very magical things with,” Orion said. “Hair.”

Zevran cupped water in his hands and poured it over his hair. “And he’s helping you.”

“I made a compelling argument for the cause. He’s like Alistair. He knows what’s right, he just needs someone else’s permission to do it sometimes.”

“Hmm,” Zevran said, working soap into his hair. Orion rose on light feet, searching nearby for a comb. He settled behind Zevran again and began working the comb gently through his soapy hair.

“Don’t ‘hmm’ me, either. Maybe he had unrequited feelings for Hawke, and that’s why it didn’t matter to him that he was a mage.”

“So attraction is a good enough excuse to overlook a deep loathing? Good to know.”

“No one is that simple,” Orion said. “Rinse.”

Zevran complied, splashing a little water on Orion in the process. “All of that strength and passion would make him an excellent lover,” Zevran said thoughtfully, standing up in the tub. “Shall I put in a good word for you to him?”

Orion handed him a towel. “I don’t know why you think your word would matter.”

“I’m the foremost authority on the subject on cranky elves,” Zevran said with ease, drying his hair.

“Fenris doesn’t need a lover, he needs a friend. And I am determined to be that.”

“It is as I keep telling you, these things need not be mutually exclusive.”

Orion ignored the comment. “If you want to help, be his friend. I think he could learn a lot from you. You were both slaves.”

“And I am a Crow still, in my own way, as you are still a Warden.”

“Don’t be cheeky.” Orion’s left eye twitched. His jaw remained set and determined. “You’re dripping.”

“Am I allowed to be cheeky when I’m not dripping?”

Orion snorted.

Zevran offered him the towel. “Perhaps you’d like to dry your favorite parts?”

Scowling, Orion took the towel as Zevran turned around. Zevran wasn’t exactly surprised when Orion snapped him with it and threw it at his head. “Do it yourself. My turn for the bath.”

With Zevran out of the way, Orion re-heated the water and climbed in. It was better he took the second bath, filthy as he was after so long traveling. Zevran opted to remain nude while he helped Orion in the bath. The nights in Kirkwall were not really warm enough for it, but it was a better option than going to bed with damp sleepwear later. His persuasion was always more effective while nude, anyway.

“I’ll see what they let me read of the viscount’s library tomorrow before I meet Ninah,” Orion said as Zevran washed his back. “With no real system of authority left in Kirkwall, and most of the nobles run off, I think we really do have a precedent to make the elder of the alienage viscount. I will ask this Aveline and the city’s seneschal for an audience with Ninah. With any luck, they’ll be relieved to have some direction and see our point of view.”

“And with your continued luck perhaps you’ll find a gryphon to use as a steed,” Zevran said. “Hair.”

Orion turned around instead, resting his hand on the edge of the tub. “Why are you so determined this won’t work?”

“Because it won’t. They will no more recognize elvhen authority in Kirkwall than they did in Denerim.”

Orion turned around, hugging his knees to his chest in the water. Zevran cupped some water in his hands and poured it carefully over his head.

“If you did not think the exact same thing, then why did you want me here, training the rabble? It is a shame, yes, but hardly unexpected.”

Orion replied with silent disapproval.

“We might still have time enough to contact your friends among the Dalish,” Zevran said. “Then our strength of arms would be reassured.”

“If I bring Velanna or the others into the fray then this will become a slaughter, shems against the People. This situation is a powder keg, but we don’t have to spark it.”

“You were not so concerned with casualties in Antiva,” Zevran pointed out.

Antiva cannot happen again. Orion couldn’t bear to say it aloud, but Zevran read it in the tension of his back and shoulders. “I’ll call them in as muscle when we’ve secured the city peacefully,” Orion finally said. “Assuming they’ll even care to be involved.”

“If you really take this fight to Tevinter, you will need them.”

Orion sank down into the water a little more.

“The magisters will have no more reservations about throwing lives at our feet than the Crows did. Less, perhaps.”

“Why do you insist on telling me what I already know?” Orion finally said, his voice high with irritation.

“Because you’ve always done me the favor of not allowing me to run from the truth.” Zevran rubbed a bit of dirt away from behind Orion’s left ear, making him shiver. “You want this relationship to be equal, after all.”

“Ah! Zevran!” Orion flustered.

“Was that a complaint?” Zevran leaned in, lightly kissing the shell of Orion’s ear.

“It will only be a complaint if you don’t follow up on it,” Orion said, sitting up haughtily and playing at being unaffected.

“Now where is that bar of soap?” Zevran said airily, dipping his hand into the water and groping.

They were equal partners in sharing the truth, true, but they were also ardent experts in the techniques of avoiding it. The task of revolution hung in the air over them like heavy clouds, and they chased it off with laughter, and the sound of water. They left the truth for the light of day, as if being able to observe the details could make them more dispassionate.

 

Sometimes, Orion visited Arlathan as he slept. It was an indistinct but beautiful world, filled with a sense of contentment and belonging so complete it was nearly alien. In the Fade, he stood before long-forgotten leaders. Keepers, they said, not Kings or Queens. The Keepers wore crowns of leaves and flowers and healed the taint with their fingertips. Theirs was a pure magic, as wild and untamed as the weather, and just as integral to the balance of the world. In the morning Orion woke with tears in his eyes, though he couldn’t properly explain them to Zevran. He suspected the Fade showed him what his heart desired, and there was no way to know if his dreams were anything but fantasy.

He saw the Keepers of Arlathan in Ninah’s smile. Ninah appeared like a queen to the alienage, her silver hair plaited above her head like a crown, her gait fearless and measured, her gaze dark and piercing. Ninah was smoothed, weathered and beautiful as driftwood. She walked with a limp due to an old dock injury, and one pointed ear was ragged, but no part of her was self-conscious. In spite of her homespun clothes and worn-through shoes, or perhaps because of them, Orion felt a deep respect before they were even introduced.

He was as nervous to meet her as he was Keeper Zathrian, as if he ought to ask permission simply to breathe. There were so many things he would have to ask of Ninah, and the sudden possibility presented itself that she might refuse. Zevran said she was amenable to helping them, but what if she changed her mind?

Zevran was well-acquainted with Ninah. He introduced Orion to her with little fanfare. “Ninah, here is Orion Surana. You might know him as the Hero of Ferelden. He wishes to speak with you.”

Orion bowed as he would to a lofty throne. Ninah laughed, setting a teapot on the table. Zevran happily poured for them as she and Orion sat down. “That’s not necessary. Now, do you mind telling me what you and this no-account Antivan have been trying to stir up in my alienage?” She looked on Zevran with a motherly fondness that Orion was glad for.

“Hasn’t Zevran explained?”

“This nonsense about making me viscount? He has.”

Ninah picked up her knitting, some thick garment of unbleached yarn to guard against the damp, no doubt. Jethann wore a jacket of similar make. Her fingers worked deftly and gracefully. Orion was briefly distracted by their movements. They were familiar, and brought to mind darned socks and campfires from years ago.

“Well, it’s not totally nonsense. I looked into the founding records, and it’s not specifically written that an elf cannot be viscount. It’s not really written that we can, either, but at least it’s not an option that’s totally excluded. I doubt anyone ever considered it possible before, but without a strong sense of leadership here, and the Chantry distracted with the business in the Towers--”

“They lock us in the alienage at night, and you think they will let me run the city?” Ninah interrupted.

Orion took a deep breath. “I understand your concern, but with Zevran’s help the elves here have started to learn their strength. They want a voice in leadership in the city. We can convince them, so long as you agree to be the one in charge.”

“Yes, my friends and I can be very convincing,” Zevran purred. “Especially if the convincing involves violence.”

Ninah’s face clouded. “I won’t become a figurehead in some kind of war. It was a shame on this entire city when the Chantry fell. The pain of all that loss was felt deeply by everyone here as well. I’m going along with this because I shudder to think what you two nice young men would do without me. I won’t have you going the way that healer from Darktown did.”

Orion laughed. He didn’t know what Ninah would consider nice, but he doubted very much Zevran and he matched that description. “We are only planning for the possibility of retaliation against us. First, we will have an audience with the seneschal and the captain of the guard. I’m sure that with you on our side, they’ll listen to us.”

Orion was very glad that Zevran held his tongue, though he could hear his lover’s skepticism screaming from across the table.

 

Zevran was just as kind not to tell Orion he told him so after Ninah and Orion were promptly rebuffed a few days later. The meeting lasted all of about five minutes, and mostly consisted of the seneschal dripping disgustingly high-minded contempt down his nose at them. The guard captain had attended but spoken little, only once, to ask after Fenris’s involvement. Orion stormed down the steps of the viscount’s keep, too angry to speak. Zevran tailed after, quickly joined by Jethann, Fenris, and Varric.

Varric, like Aveline, had loose ends in Kirkwall. Fenris was not surprised to find him again in the Hanged Man one evening, nor was he surprised that his connections were providing weapons and food for the elves under the table. Only slightly more surprising was his friendship with Zevran. Rogues and liars seemed naturally drawn to one another.

“What happened?” Jethann asked.

Zevran raised his hand to quiet him. “Not here.”

Varric led them into Hawke’s estate. Varric claimed to be looking after it, and aside from a fine layer of dust he seemed to be doing well at just that. A smell of elfroot and velvet still lingered faintly. It made Fenris’s throat constrict, thinking Lawrence might come home in a few moments and make a joke about the whole place needing no more than a vigorous cleaning and a few new sets of curtains.

“I’m getting the impression that didn’t end well,” Varric said.

“It seems Surana’s fancy words didn’t impress the biggest bureaucrat in the city,” Ninah said primly. She pulled out her knitting from a bag at her hip and began working unconcernedly.

“More like the biggest windbag!” Orion spoke through gritted teeth. He sat down on the bench in the anteroom, not bothering to go further inside. Zevran sat down next to him, slipping an arm around him to steady him. “They all but slammed the door in our faces.”

“There must be something else we can do,” Jethann said, looking to Ninah.

“We could still stage a coup,” Zevran said reasonably. “It would be easy enough, with the strength we’ve gathered and the help of my people. Holding the keep might be a little more difficult, but hardly impossible. We did hear word back from Surana’s contacts amidst the Dalish, so reinforcements will be arriving soon.”

“No violence,” Ninah said pointedly. She looked to Orion. “Not until we’ve exhausted every option. If your Dalish friends arrive, they must be guests in this city, not an invading army.”

“Ah, yes. Calling them guests will definitely make the humans less nervous.” Zevran remarked.

“This is ridiculous,” Jethann quietly fumed. “Do the humans in charge even realize they wouldn’t have a city without us?”

“No, I don’t think they do,” Ninah said thoughtfully. “Perhaps it’s time we show them. The city guard is still stretched quite thin. They might not like it, but I do not think the guard captain would be so stupid as to stop us from staging a sort of non-violent protest. If every every elf in the city sat on the viscount’s door step, peacefully, they surely could not ignore us, but neither could they arrest us all either.”

“So we just sit around?” Fenris growled.

Orion worried his lower lip. Realizing a bit of his hair was sticking to his mouth, he pushed his hair out of his face. He stared at Zevran, then Jethann. “I promised her,” he grimaced. “We should try to do this the right way.”

“I can’t believe this,” Fenris said. He left, slamming the door behind him.

 

Fenris stormed into Aveline’s office just as she was finishing up her daily reports. She seemed a little surprised to see him, but didn’t raise an eyebrow as he began to pace back and forth in front of her desk. Though it had been some time since she had a front row seat to Fenris’s agitation, it was an old, familiar play.

“You should have taken their suggestion,” Fenris said. “You have always stood on the side of reason before.”

“And what would that have accomplished? The elder of the alienage has no claim to the throne of viscount. No one would accept it, and this city has had quite of enough of zealots trying to decide its fate. You of all people should know that.”

“They’re not zealots.”

“They want to take over the city, Fenris. A city I vowed to keep lawful and safe.”

Fenris slammed his hands down on the desk. “And why shouldn’t a city of elves be lawful and safe?”

“You are deliberately misconstruing what I’m saying.” Aveline sat with arms across her chest, stern and imposing as ever. Fenris was all too familiar with that fire in her eyes. “If they wanted to shut me up, I’m surprised Surana didn’t sent the assassin he flaunts so blatantly.”

“He didn’t send me.”

“Then why are you here? In the past, you had no pity for the elves, nor cared for their company. I do not understand why you wish to be involved now.”

“Is it so easily forgotten that I am an elf?” Fenris growled.

“You always had more sense than this! You of all people should understand why an elf cannot be viscount. People simply aren’t ready for such a change. The city is already falling apart at the seams, we do not need another conflict to push us over.”

“Ninah has been in the city longer than you, and yet they speak of making you viscount. Why shouldn’t she lead the city?”

“It’s not that I don’t pity the elves, but there is a right way to go about this.”

Fenris always got along well with Aveline. He very nearly joined the City Guard at her behest, once, and he was even better friends with her husband, Donnic. There was a sort of straightforwardness and understanding between warriors he always appreciated. He felt that respect dissolving like the ink of a letter left in the rain. What he had always known about Aveline suddenly took on new light. She believed in the law, and protecting the city. She saw things in black and white. Her stubbornness was a boon during a fight, when she could hunker down and endure most anything. But now, it made her resist a change, made her suspicious of it for no more reason than it was simply unknown to her.

Even if Orion Surana was named hero of her homeland for saving from the Blight, she simply couldn’t imagine an elf acting as a leader for both humans and elves.

“They have been trying to go about this the right way, but you did not listen. Keep that in mind, when the time comes.” To his horror, Fenris found himself wondering if this is how Anders had felt. He shoved the thought away.

“Are you threatening me?”

“I would not wish to see you harmed.”

“Then put an end to this. Convince them to stop whatever they’re planning.”

“I can’t.” Fenris turned heel toward the door, but paused, scrapping his gauntlet-tips against the doorframe, his back to Aveline. “And I wouldn’t if I could.”

 

At first, the non-violent protest went better than they hoped. The protest was held on a bright, clear morning. Elves everywhere left their daily work, from the dock to the Rose. The sight was truly overwhelming. Not only did the elves completely block the stairway to the viscount’s keep, they obscured Hightown as well, blocking the merchant stalls and general thoroughfare. They simply sat in silence. Occasionally, someone in the crowd would start singing an old Dalish song, and those who knew the words chimed in. Ninah stood at the head of them, while Zevran, Orion, and Fenris sat at the edges of the crowd, dressed in simple armor and helms to avoid attention. Orion insisted on hiding, not wanting his or Fenris’s presence to be misunderstood, or cause the event any problems. The other Crows, Alano, Spark and Ivette, hid out of sight, patrolling the area. They were ready to lunge in at the first sign of trouble. At noon, Aveline and her guards approached with the seneschal. Ninah faced their gleaming armor in a tunic she knit herself.

“This is nearly every elf in the city,” Ninah said. “As you can see, Kirkwall is at a standstill. We have done nothing wrong, we have simply chosen to show you how important we are to keep this city going. And that you need us. The throne of the viscount has sat empty while I repaired the alienage. I can repair this city, too. Together, we can make this city better, but that means offering elves the same respect as humans.”

“If you really cared what happened to this city, you’d go back to your jobs and keep it going,” said Seneschal Bran. “Unless it’s true that elves are a lazy lot after all.”

The crowd stirred. A few elves shouted obscenities. Someone threw a bottle. It shattered on the ground nearby, widely missing the seneschal. Ninah called upon them to be calm.

Just as the crowd began to pull itself together again, the jangle and clang of armored troops approaching disrupted the air. Fenris counted ten templar swords emblazoned on each suit of armor. At the head of them was Cullen, newly anointed Knight-Commander. There weren’t mages for him to guard in the Gallows anymore, so he was all that remained of Chantry authority in Kirkwall.

“I’m here for the dangerous apostate Orion Surana! Surrender peacefully or we will have to remove you by force!”

And Fenris was sure there was nothing Cullen would like better than removing a mage by force. He knew that feeling well.

“Did you do this, Aveline? Did you call him here?” Fenris called out, trying to catch his former comrade’s eye. He spied Alano trying to sneak the mage out of the crowd. Zevran still sat in the crowd, pretending to be just another city elf. Fenris could see the assassin was taut as a bowstring.

“I won’t see this city fall to another mage!” Cullen cried out. “Isn’t obvious he’s been influencing all of you, using blood magic to herd you and use you so he can grab power for himself?”

“The templars have no authority in this matter,” Ninah shouted to him. “We don’t need the influence of blood magic to want a better life for ourselves. I myself am a Maker-fearing woman, I attended the Chantry every Sunday since long before you arrived in this city.”

Jethann stood up. “Go back to the Gallows, Knight-Commander!” Several elves shouted their assent. Others booed.

The templars drew their swords. Fenris saw Zevran moving.

“Stop!” It was Orion calling out. He pulled off his helmet and threw it to the ground, his hair spilling red and wild everywhere. Fenris couldn’t see his eyes, but he was certain he could hear that incendiary glare. “Cullen! How could you accuse me of blood magic? You were there for my Harrowing. I saved you when the Fereldan Circle was overrun!”

“Even the Hero of Ferelden could fall to a demon,” Cullen replied. “It’s the only explanation for this ridiculous attempt at an uprising, in blatant disregard of the Chantry’s order.”

More rabble from the crowd. Fenris couldn’t blame them for it. He could see now what Orion meant, with the Chantry being hand-in-hand with the oppression of elves as much as they had been the mages. How could the elves in alienages or the tribes of Dalish ever hope to gather enough strength to rescue their enslaved brothers and sisters when this was their result? A man in a suit of armor snatching away food he didn’t even want, and blaming strength of will on demons.

This could not be what the Maker intended.

“If I go with you, do you swear to take me alone and leave these people to their due course?” Orion asked, voice cracking a little.

For all Orion was, in this moment, he was still a mage afraid of a templar, desperately trying to remain courageous.

“I swear it,” Cullen said. Though the crowd murmured their protests, Orion raised his hand to quiet them, and made his way to the bottom of the stairs where Cullen waited.

A blue-white light erupted as Cullen hit Orion with a smite spell. The mage collapsed to the ground, suddenly small and fragile. Chompy appeared as if called upon, disobeying Orion’s orders to stay out of sight. Snarling like a genlock, Chompy attacked Cullen. Cullen’s templars responded by firing arrows indiscriminately. The hound shook them off, but Orion was hit. Chompy let out a bone-shaking howl and attacked one of the archers as they templars struggled to regroup. Several city guards pushed forward, intending to help the templars, or maybe just to get a better look. Aveline shouted them to keep rank, but the damage was already done.

Most of the elves drew weapons, meeting the guards’ steel with steel. At Zevran’s suggestion, they disobeyed Ninah’s request they not arm themselves. The assassin made his way to the front of the crowd without a second glance to Orion, positioning himself to protect Ninah with his daggers. Arrows from Spark and Ivette thinned the guards. Alano was a fleeting shadow, thinning down the templar archers with Chompy.

“He’s incited a riot!” One of the templars called out, “They must be his thralls!”

Familiar rage filled Fenris’s veins. Everything went bright. Other elves scrambled out of the way to let him toward his target. Behind him, Fenris heard the big doors of the viscount’s palace groan open, but did not stop to see what was happening. Cullen stood over Orion with a sword at his throat. Chompy nearly lunged him, but Orion commanded him to stop, and called the mabari to his side.

“Don’t do this, Cullen.” Orion struggled to sit up and meet Cullen’s gaze, bracing himself on his blood-soaked mabari. His face was ashen. Three arrows stuck out of his armor, two in his chest and the other in his shoulder. A little blood seeped from the wounds. “You’ll regret it. Don’t be like the people that hurt you.”

“Oh, Surana. They weren’t really people, were they?”

Fed up with dramatics, Fenris phased his fist through Cullen’s armor, wrapping his fingers around the man’s heart. It pulsed in his hand like a frightened bird.

“Let us go.”

Fenris saw the white-blue glow of his brands reflected in Cullen’s eyes. And he saw fear. The templar dropped his weapon and scrambled back.

Between Fenris and the unsteady help of his limping mabari, Orion was able to stand somewhat.

“The fight...”

“Is better off without you. I smell magebane.”

“Your mother’s magebane,” Orion muttered, and wisely said no more. Chompy whined, and licked at his hand. With Fenris, they moved forward resolutely. Cullen said nothing as they hobbled away.

Alano also said nothing as he drew one of his blades across Cullen’s throat. Cullen gasped, and sputtered. His life spilled out on the stone beneath him in a glassy pool. Alano gave a little nod to his reflection, and melted back into the crowd.

 

It felt wrong to go the opposite direction of trouble. That was one thing Fenris never did with Lawrence until the very end. After a quick break in an alley to pull out the arrows, Fenris half-dragged, half-carried Orion all the way to Lowtown. He took him to Varric’s room at the Hanged Man. Varric was out, probably scoping out the situation in Hightown himself again. Fenris set Orion up in Varric’s bed, not sure what to do after slapping several injury kits on him. This saved Orion long enough for him to recover from the shock and magebane. He chugged nearly his entire supply of lyrium to heal himself and his dog. The room was a bloody mess, but Varric had to be used to other people’s disasters by now.

“You saved my life,” Orion said, sounding delirious. There was still a little lyrium on his chin.

“Don’t remind me,” Fenris grumbled, searching through Varric’s cabinets for healing potion. Or wine. Mostly wine.

“You saved a mage from a templar.”

Fenris sat down next to Orion, who was using Chompy as a pillow. He used a small knife to open the wine he found.

“I saved an elf from being unjustly executed by a human,” Fenris said. The wine opened with a soft popping noise. “I’m your left hand man, remember?” He thought it was alright to smile. Orion was so lyrium-addled he probably wouldn’t remember.

“I would rub your arm or something, but you’re sitting on my wrong side,” Orion said, smiling vaguely.

“Good,” Fenris said, and drank. For once, Orion didn’t try to break their silence. For once, that silence seemed friendly rather than dreadful.

About halfway into the bottle Fenris said, “Thank you, Surana.”

“For what?”

“For dragging me into a mess that I had no business in.” He meant it.

“I needed you,” said Orion. “From the moment I met you. Shit, that sounded better in my head.”

They listened to the crowd in the tavern carrying on as usual. It was perhaps a little more sedate, though much of the human crowd wouldn’t let such a tiny thing as revolution get in the way of their nightly drunken pissing match. Fenris heard Varric greet the servers as he came in, and order four meals to be brought up to the room. He stood up to greet the dwarf, and height-awkward shoulder-slaps were had all around.

“Well, Broody, I certainly never expected you to turn up with an injured mage with revolutionary airs, at least, not that one,” Varric said. “And using my bed and drinking my wine as well. Glad to know you still think of us as family.”

Orion didn’t care at all about Varric’s arrival, or for what he was saying. His gaze was instead fixed on the doorway, where Zevran stood. The assassin wore a lot of blood, but most of it appeared to belong to other people.

“Zevran!”

“Good thing you’re alive,” Zevran said with a sly smile, gliding across the floor to settle next to Fenris. “That means I get to kill you for ordering me to protect someone other than you today. I’m never doing that again.” He took Orion’s hand and squeezed it, leaning forward to plant a kiss to his forehead. Orion giggled.

“And thank you to you, for keeping him alive,” he said to Fenris. “That’s quite a trick you can do, with the glowing. Such remarkable tattoos.”

Fenris stood, taking the bottle with him. He sat next to Varric at the table, saying nothing.

“Don’t worry, you’ll warm up to me eventually,” Zevran said.

“What happened?” Orion asked, bringing Zevran’s hand to his mouth to kiss the back.

“The Captain of the Guard proved strangely relenting once we got her alone. Did you know she ordered the guards not to hurt us? They pulled back, so once we got inside, the fight more or less stopped aside from the few guards stupid enough not to listen to her. It’s so hard to get good help these days... We thought we were going to have to threaten her or the seneschal, but they seemed to understand just how serious the situation was. Which is good, because a Ninah sits on the viscount’s throne as we speak. Jethann and my subordinates are guarding her while they hammer out the details.”

Orion nodded, and laid back on his mabari-pillow. Zevran examined the traces of arrow wounds Orion mostly managed to heal. “Rumor has it this city has lost yet another Knight-Commander. I wonder how many they’ll have to lose before they realize the job is superfluous.”

“I did not kill Cullen,” Fenris said.

“I believe it was my protege Alano who cut his throat. He did, after all, threaten to kill Orion.”

“I’m sick of people dying because of me,” Orion said quietly.

“There are people all over the world who are dying who have never even met you, so let’s not be ridiculous, amor.” Zevran traced his fingertips over Orion’s collarbone, between the straps of his prosthetic. “Aren’t you tired of wearing this heavy thing?”

“Mm,” Orion said indifferently, pushing his face into Chompy’s fur. He lifted his left shoulder, though, and let Zevran unstrap the prosthetic. Zevran tucked the redhead in, then joined Varric and Fenris at the table. He motioned for the bottle of wine. Fenris grudgingly passed it to him. Zevran took a pull of the stuff and made a bit of a face. Fine enough wine, but he preferred his alcohol to properly breathe.

“While I would like to insist that a situation always improves with the inclusion of a handsome Antivan assassin, his adorable genius mage lover and their fascinating glowing friend, at this time, it may not strictly be true. In fact I would go so far as to say the opposite is true. The peace we reached this afternoon is fragile. It could easily be undone if more templars arrive, and they may do so once they find out Cullen is dead. Fighting may still break out when the Dalish arrive to enforce the new leadership, but we have done all we can. I believe with the Guard Captain’s support the city will remain mostly secure. In other words, we need to get out of town.”

Fenris and Zevran both looked expectantly at Varric. “I’ll see what I can do. But you must at least promise me to tell me your side of things before you leave.”

“All that and more, my friend,” Zevran assured him with a wink. He only met Varric in the last few weeks, but he was fond of the rogue.

“Where do you plan to go?”

Fenris looked around Varric’s room. It was much unchanged from the first time he ever set foot in it all those years ago. The only things out of place were the barely-moving lumps of Orion and his dog beneath the covers, and the Antivan elf cleaning his weapons at the table. It occurred to him that this room might change, that if he ever returned to Kirkwall he might find nothing but a tumbled-down blackened ceiling, as he had in his own house. For a moment, he worked to committing the tiniest details of the place to memory. The quill and ink to one side, Bianca’s spare arrows in a neat row.

“Antiva, though a direct route is probably too predictable. Once we’re there we can be more or less assured no one will bother us.”

“And you, Broody? Much as I hate to say it, you might be just a little too popular to stick around here. All the crowds of screaming fans might cramp your style, especially since you killed some templars. Just when I thought Hawke’s little gang couldn’t get a worse reputation.”

“I’ve never been Antiva. I suppose it could be interesting.”

“Interesting in a bad way,” Orion muttered.

“Three handsome tattooed elves making their way to the City of Antiva to meet with assassins and plan the next step in a revolution,” Zevran said, “That sounds like a fine tale, doesn’t it Varric?”

“Maybe with a little creative embellishment.”

“Eugh,” Fenris said. Zevran laughed.

“As happy as I am for what is happening here,” Zevran said, “I must admit I’ll be glad to leave Kirkwall.”

“As will I,” said Fenris. He realized it was true.


End file.
